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THE SKETCH BOOK 



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(After a daguerreotype by PLUMB, about 1850.) 



V 

IRVING'S 



SKETCH BOOK 



COMPLETE EDITION 



Edited with Introduction and Notes 



MARY E. LITCHFIELD 



BOSTON, U.S.A. 
GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
C&e ^tfjenaettm $3ress 
1 90 1 



^6 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAY. 1 1901 

Copyright entry 

ICLASS^XXc. N». 

COPY B. 



V> 



Copyright, 1901, by 
MARY E. LITCHFIELD 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



PREFACE 

The text of the present edition of the Sketch Book is 
exactly like that of the author's revised edition, except 
that modern standards have been followed in the matter 
of spelling and punctuation. As the book is intended for 
younger as well as older students, the notes are rather 
full, and therefore should be used with discretion. Among 
them will be found critical remarks on the author's style. 
These have been inserted because the sketches are of 
special value in connection with the study of English 
composition. All the footnotes referring to the text are 
Irving's. In the preparation of this edition help has 
been received in the form of criticism, and occasionally a 
valuable suggestion has been found in the work of some 
other editor. Many of the books used are named in the 
" Suggestions for Students," but special mention should 
be made of Charles Dudley Warner's works relating to 
Irving, and of the Life and Letters of Washington Lrving, 
by his nephew, Pierre M. Irving. 

Boston, February, 1901. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction vii 

Chronological Table ■ xx 

Suggestions for Students xxx 

The Author's Preface to the Revised Edition . . 3 

The Author's Account of Himself ir^ 

The Voyage 15 

Roscoe 23 

The Wife 31 

~^Rip Van Winkle 40 < 

English Writers on America 63 

Rural Life in England 74 

The Broken Heart" 83 

The Art of Book-Making 90 

A Royal Poet '. 99 

The Country Church 116 

The Widow and her Son 123 

A Sunday in London 132 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap . . . ^ 135 

The Mutability of Literature 149 

Rural Funerals . .162 

The Inn Kitchen 177 

The Spectre Bridegroom 180 

Westminster Abbey 199 

"Christmas 213 

,^-The Stage Coach 22on 

_£hristmas Eve 228 

_ .X^hhstmas Day 242 

v 



vi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Christmas Dinner . , . . . . 259 

London Antiques 277 

Little Britain 284 

Stratford-on-Avon 302 

-Traits of Indian Character 326 

Philip of Pokanoket 340 

John Bull 361 

The Pride of the Village 375 

The Angler 386 

'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 397— ^—U~ 

L'Envoy 437 

Appendix (Irving's) 440 

Notes ........... 447 



INTRODUCTION 



Washington Irving was born in the city of New 
York, on the third of April, 1783; the same year that 
the British evacuated the city and that England acknowl- 
edged the independence of the thirteen colonies. " Wash- 
ington's work is ended," said the mother, "and the child 
shall be named after him." One morning a few years 
later, as a Scotch maid who lived in the Irving family 
was walking out with her charge, she saw the great man 
enter a shop ; for Washington was then living in New 
York as President of the United States. Following him 
in, she pointed to the boy, saying, " Please, your honor, 
here's a bairn was named for you." Whereupon the 
President placed his hand on the head of his future 
biographer and gave him his blessing. 

Irving's father, a native of the Orkney Islands, was an 
upright, conscientious man and a believer in strict family 
discipline, while the mother, who came from the south of 
England, was sympathetic and vivacious. The strongest 
ties of affection united their large family of children, 
eight of whom lived to mature years. 

As a boy Irving was given to roguish pranks. Some- 
times after one of his escapades his mother would look 
at him mournfully and say, " Oh, Washington, if you were 
only good ! " One of his teachers dubbed him " the 
general," because although constantly in mischief he 
never sought to shield himself by telling a lie. This 



Vlll THE SKETCH BOOK 

spirit, of truthfulness existed in connection with a sensi- 
tiveness to suffering so keen that he was allowed to leave 
school with the girls whenever an unlucky schoolmate 
was to suffer punishment. At the age of eleven he was 
revelling in Sindbad the Sailor, Robinson Crusoe, and The 
World Displayed, the last a collection of voyages that 
made him long to fly to the ends of the earth. A few 
years later his desire to become a sailor drove him to a 
diet of salt pork and a bed on the hard floor ; but the 
preparatory discipline proving too severe, his imagination 
sought an outlet through other channels. 

The New York of Irving's boyhood was a community 
of varied interests and marked social contrasts ; a minia- 
ture metropolis where staid Dutch families lived side by 
side with comers from every quarter of the globe. In 
1789, when Irving was six years old, the city had a popu- 
lation of twenty-nine thousand souls, of whom two thou- 
sand three hundred were negro slaves. Slave labor was 
employed in every household of importance. 1 

Except in the business sections the houses were scat- 
tered and surrounded by gardens. There were a number 
of the old Dutch dwellings, with peaked roofs and gable 
ends toward the street, but frame buildings with brick 
fronts and tiled roofs predominated. The streets were 
lighted with oil lamps, for gas was not introduced until 
1825. Perhaps the most primitive institution of all was 
the sewerage system, which consisted of negro slaves, " a 
long line of whom might be seen late at night wending 
their way to the river, each with a tub on his head." 
The gallows, which was much used in those days on 
account of the large number of crimes punished with 
death, was placed in a gaudily painted Chinese pagoda. 

1 For further details consult The Work of Washington Irving, 
by Charles Dudley Warner (1893). 



INTR OD UC TION ix 

Near this were the stocks and the whipping post. An 
hour in the stocks was the penalty for profane swearing 
if the offender could not pay the fine of three shillings. 
In 1789 the city could boast of but one bank, one fire 
insurance company, and one theatre, while it had twenty- 
two churches representing thirteen denominations. At 
this time Columbia College had about thirty students. 

The costumes of the early New Yorkers must have 
given to their city a touch of the picturesque. A man 
was considered simply dressed who wore a long blue 
riding-coat with steel buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, and 
yellow kerseymere knee-breeches. John Ramage, the 
miniature-painter, is described as wearing a scarlet coat 
with mother-of-pearl buttons, a white silk waistcoat em- 
broidered with colored flowers, black satin breeches with 
paste knee buckles, white silk stockings, large silver shoe 
buckles, and, on the upper part of his powdered hair, a 
. small cocked hat which left the curls at his ears displayed. 
He carried a gold snuff-box and a gold-headed cane. 
The costumes of the women were as varied and as gay 
in color as those of the men, and it is interesting to learn 
that the size and height of their hats called forth fre- 
quent remonstrances. 

Although there were in the community many persons 
of intelligence and good breeding, the social customs 
were not over-refined. Drinking to excess was a common 
vice, and in their amusements the young men were free, 
even boisterous. The people were keenly interested in 
politics but cared little for art, literature, or music. 

Travelling by land in Irving's youth was something of 
a hardship. The lumbering stage coach made slow prog- 
ress over almost impassable roads and across dangerous 
streams. The trip from New York to Philadelphia occu- 
pied three days; Albany could be reached in three or 



X THE SKETCH BOOK 

four, according to the season of the year ; but whoever 
was daring enough to attempt the journey to Boston was 
obliged to travel from three o'clock in the morning till ten 
at night, for six days, before reaching his destination. 1 

When Irving was sixteen he left school and entered a 
lawyer's office — not following the example of his brothers, 
who went to Columbia College. His biographer asserts 
that he learned more literature than law while preparing 
for his profession. Ill health was no doubt one cause of 
his lack of close application ; for when he came of age, 
he was so far from robust that his brothers sent him 
abroad, hoping that he might benefit by change of air 
and scene. 

He possessed in a high degree the qualities that make 
a good traveller. Hard beds and poor fare — the fre- 
quent portion of the wanderer in those days. — could not 
disturb his equanimity. He wrote to one of his brothers : 
"For my part I endeavor to take things as they come, 
with cheerfulness ; when I cannot get a dinner to suit 
my taste, I endeavor to get a taste to suit my dinner. . . . 
There is nothing I dread more than to be one of the 
Smell-fungi of this world." 

Some adventures not altogether pleasant fell to his lot. 
While he was on his way to Sicily, pirates boarded the 
vessel and opened all the trunks and portmanteaus ; and 
during the first part of his stay in France, he suffered 
much annoyance because the authorities suspected him 
of being an English spy. The social life which he 
enjoyed in the large centres compensated him for all 

1 The distance between New York and Philadelphia by rail is 
a little over ninety miles. At present the fastest trains make the 
distance in about two hours. Boston, which is two hundred and 
fourteen miles from New York by the shortest route, can be 
reached in five hours. 



INTRODUCTION XI 

vexations. He saw many distinguished people. In 
Rome the charm of Allston's society almost induced him 
to turn painter; in London Siddons 1 "froze [his] heart 
and melted it by turns." 

Several years before his trip to Europe he had con- 
tributed some juvenile essays to the Morning Chro7iide, 
his brother William's paper, over the signature of "Jona- 
than Oldstyle"; but the first productions that gave 
promise of his future powers were articles written after 
his return, for a periodical known as the Salmagu/idi, 
edited by James K. Paulding and William Irving. Not 
long after the Salmagundi had run its short course, he 
was at work upon a book that will doubtless live when 
many of his more serious productions have been for- 
gotten, the History of New York, by " Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker." Before it came out humorous notices appeared 
in the newspapers concerning the disappearance from his 
lodgings of "a small elderly gentleman, dressed in an old 
black coat and cocked hat, by the name of Knicker- 
bocker." Later it was stated that he had left behind 
him " a very curious kind of a written book " which 
would be sold to pay his bills. The History was pub- 
lished in Philadelphia and gravely dedicated to the New 
York Historical Society. Some of the old Dutch inhabit- 
ants of New York were indignant at the author's carica- 
ture of their ancestors, but in other quarters the book 
was warmly received. Mr. Charles Dudley Warner calls 
it "one of the few masterpieces of humor," and asserts 
that " it has entered the popular mind as no other 
American book ever has." 

While Irving was at work upon his History an event 
occurred which cast a shadow over his future life — the 
death of Matilda Hoffman, the young lady whom he was 
1 Sarah Kemble Siddons, a celebrated English actress (17 55-1 S31). 



Xil THE SKETCH BOOK 

to have married. Writing of his early love long after- 
wards, he said : " For years I could not talk on the sub- 
ject of this hopeless regret ; I could not even mention 
her name ; but her image was continually before me, and 
I dreamt of her incessantly." He never married, and in 
all his wanderings he carried with him her Bible and 
Prayer Book. 

At the age of twenty-three Irving was admitted to the 
bar, but he never practised law. Four years later he 
went into partnership with his brothers, who carried on 
the hardware business in New York and Liverpool. The 
intention of his brothers in making this arrangement was 
to provide for his support and at the same time leave him 
free to devote himself to literary pursuits. In the autumn 
of 1812, after the United States had declared war against 
England, he made one of a committee of merchants who 
went to Washington seeking measures of relief. For 
several years business men had been suffering on account 
of the unfortunate relations existing between the two 
countries. The destruction of the public buildings in 
Washington by the British, in 18 14, fired his soul with 
military ardor, and he immediately offered his services to 
Governor Tompkins of New York, who made him his aid 
and military secretary. Although he did not once " smell 
powder" in the four months during which he held this 
position, he did a good deal of rough riding and saw 
something of camp life on the frontier. 

In May, 1815, — the year made memorable by the 
Battle of Waterloo, — he sailed for England, with the 
intention of returning in a few months. He remained 
abroad seventeen years. Not long after his arrival in 
Liverpool the illness of his brother Peter made it neces- 
sary for him to take charge of the affairs of the Irving 
brothers in that city. This was a trying experience for a 



INTR OD UC TION xin 

man of his temperament, and it was made the more trying 
from the fact that the firm was embarrassed and in 1818 
was obliged to go into bankruptcy. Irving was now 
thrown upon his own resources ; indeed, besides support- 
ing himself, he felt that he must do what he could for 
his brothers who had so generously provided for him in 
former years. Peter, because of his ill health, was his 
special care. 

While literature had always been his chief interest, he 
had never devoted himself to it seriously. He now deter- 
mined to make writing his profession ; and instead of 
returning to New York he decided to settle in London. 
This was a wise choice. In his native city, where he had 
scores of relatives and friends, it would have been difrl- 
cult for him to lead the life of a hard-working author ; 
and, besides, he needed the stimulus that a writer finds 
in one of the great intellectual and literary centres. His 
first production after he had entered upon his new life 
was The Sketch Book, by " Geoffrey Crayon." The first 
number was published in America in 18 19, and the series 
was completed during the following year. The popu- 
larity of the book in his own country led to its speedy 
publication in London, where it was equally successful. 

As soon as he was known to be the author, he was 
warmly received in literary and fashionable circles. Les- 
lie, the painter, wrote : " Geoffrey Crayon is the most 
fashionable fellow of the day." Lord Byron declared 
that he knew the Crayon by heart, or, at least, that there 
was not a passage in it to which he could not easily refer. 
In Scott, Irving had found a valuable friend while he was 
still an obscure author, and with Moore he became inti- 
mate later, in Paris. Campbell, Rogers, Hallam, Milman, 
Gifford, Isaac DTsraeli, — these were some of the men 
whom he met in society. 



Xiv THE SKETCH BOOK 

It is worthy of note that he won recognition, not in a 
period of literary sterility, but when these and many 
other able writers were in the field. Hazlitt, Charles 
Lamb, and De Quincey — his rivals on his own ground — 
were finding new possibilities in English prose ; Landor 
was re-creating in his imagination the heroes of classical 
antiquity ; Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey were 
still writing ; Shelley and Keats, soon to be silenced by 
death, were uttering their swan songs ; in America, 
Cooper and Bryant were becoming well known ; France 
was soon to be startled by the daring note of Victor 
Hugo ; and in Germany, Goethe, towering above all 
his fellow- writers through the breadth and power of his 
intellect, was giving to the world the last fruits of his 
rich experience. When we think of Irving as one of 
this distinguished company, we are a little surprised at 
his wide and long-continued popularity. " There seemed 
to be," as some one has said, "a kind of conspiracy to 
hoist him over the heads of his contemporaries." 

The next few years, during which he spent some time 
in France and Germany, saw the production of Brace- 
bridge Hall and The Tales of a Traveller, both similar to 
the Sketch Book in their general tone. 

He had reached the point where he needed fresh 
inspiration, and the inspiration came from a sojourn 
in Spain. In 1826 he went to Madrid as member of 
the American Legation and remained in the country 
three years — the most productive years of his life. To 
this period we owe The Life of Columbus, The Voyages 
of the Companions of Columbus, The Alhambra, The Con- 
quest of Granada, and The Lege?ids of the Conquest of Spain. 
The romantic episodes of Spanish and Moorish history 
delighted his inmost soul ; never had author food more 
fit for his imagination. From the palace of the Alhambra 



INTR OD UC TION x v 

he wrote : " Here, then, I am nestled in one of the 
most remarkable, romantic, and delicious spots in the 
world. ... It absolutely appears to me like a dream, 
or as if I am spell-bound in some fairy palace." 

In 1829 he left Spain and went to London as Secre- 
tary of Legation to the Court of St. James. His English 
friends gave him a warm welcome. In recognition of his 
valuable work as a writer, the Royal Society of Litera- 
ture presented him with a medal, and the University of 
Oxford gave him the degree of D.C.L. In 1832 he 
left England for America. 

His long sojourn abroad had not weakened his love for 
his native land. Soon after reaching New York he wrote 
to his brother Peter that he had been in a tumult of 
enjoyment ever since his arrival, was pleased with every- 
thing and everybody, and was as happy as mortal could 
be. During the year he made a tour in the West, in 
company with a party of commissioners who were to 
treat with the Indians. Astoria, written at the suggestion 
of John Jacob Astor, — in part the work of Mr. Pierre M. 
Irving, — the Tour on the Prairies, and the Adventures of 
Captain Bonneville, give many of his western experiences. 

In 1842 he went again to Spain ; this time as United 
States Minister. The appointment was made through 
the influence of Daniel Webster. Already the now dis- 
tinguished author had refused to run for Congress, had 
objected to the use of his name in the election of mayor, 
in New York, and had declined the secretaryship of the 
Navy. Nothing but the sense of duty and the conscious- 
ness of his special fitness for the position could have 
induced him to leave again his native land, above all to 
tear himself from " Sunnyside," the home he had made 
for himself and his nieces at Tarrytown on the Hudson. 
His warm interest in Spanish affairs and his friendly 



xvi THE SKETCH BOOK 

relations with Spaniards of high position caused him to 
be most successful in discharging his duties as minister 
through a somewhat troubled period. 

He returned to New York in 1846, having reached 
the age of sixty-three. Increasing years failed to lessen 
his literary activity. The Life of Washington, begun 
before his mission to Spain, engaged his attention for 
the remainder of his life. The Life of Goldsmith and 
Mahomet and His Successors both appeared in 1849, an d 
a collection of sketches, entitled Wolf erf s Roost, in 1855. 
He died at " Sunnyside " on the 28th of November, 
1859. 

Irving's life of seventy-six years covers a period char- 
acterized by momentous changes — social, intellectual, 
and political. He was born in the early days of the 
Republic, when the stage coach and the sailing vessel 
furnished the most rapid means of conveyance and com- 
munication. When he died, the slow-going world of his 
boyhood was no more — done away by steam and elec- 
tricity. The wilderness, which in his youth lay distant 
but a few hours from New York, had retreated to the 
far West. A great conflict was about to free his native 
land from the system of slavery, one of the familiar insti- 
tutions of his boyhood. As a young man he had watched 
the early triumphs and the fall of the first Napoleon ; and as 
an old man he had seen the rise to power of Napoleon III. 
and Eugenie, one of whom had been his guest at " Sunny- 
side," while the other, when a child in Granada, had sat 
upon his knee. When he began to write there was but 
one man in America who had made a reputation in the 
domain of pure literature — Charles Brockden Brown; 
in his later years the names of those now best known in 
American letters — Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow, 
and their contemporaries — were on the lips of all. 



INTR OD UC TION XVll 

In reading the biography and the letters of this first 
distinguished American writer, one is struck by his aloof- 
ness from the strenuous life of the century. He, the 
spokesman of the youngest of the nations, looked ever 
toward the past. The great intellectual movement which 
owed its origin to the discoveries of modern science and 
to rapid changes in social conditions left him almost 
untouched. This seems the more strange from the fact 
that his public duties took him frequently to the centres 
of thought and action, while the positions which he held 
made it impossible for him to keep entirely out of con- 
temporary politics. He followed of necessity the bent of 
his genius. By nature he was the contemplator of man- 
kind, not the participator in man's struggles. He loved 
to withdraw from the present, with its bare and often ugly 
facts, to a past sufficiently remote to have about it the 
halo of romance. This is why he cared for Spain, with 
its tales of Moor and Christian, with its dream-haunted 
Alhambra ; why when a youth he wandered, gun in hand, 
on the shores of the Hudson or among the valleys of the 
Catskills, peopling the solitudes with the creatures of his 
imagination. 

If Irving felt small interest in important movements, he 
cared greatly for human beings. He lived at " Sunny- 
side," surrounded by those whom he loved ; his brothers 
were as dear to him as his own life ; his friendships 
stood the test of time and change. He would often 
speak of some charming woman or of some noble man 
whom he had chanced to meet, recalling them through 
long stretches of years, as one recalls a delightful vision. 
His letters abound in references to children ; for in every 
land he found youthful comrades who listened with wide- 
eyed wonder to his tales of knights or fairies. Even the 
little Queen of Spain was first of all a " dear child," not 



XVlll THE SKETCH BOOK 

a royal personage, in the thought of the kindly American 
minister. 

It is this human sympathy, this social quality, that 
gives to his productions their characteristic flavor. In 
reading him we enjoy the companionship of one who 
shows us with sincere delight the beauty in nature and in 
human life that has made his own existence a joy. He 
reminds one of Addison ; but he is more simple and more 
broadly human, — a friend rather than a teacher. His 
humor is less subtle than Addison's ; his intellect less keen. 

In the lives of his own countrymen Irving has been an 
influence of much importance. Coming, as he did, at a 
time when Americans in general had little appreciation of 
beauty in any form, he opened their eyes to the loveliness 
that lay at their very doors — the loveliness of wild 
nature. He made them feel the glory of the Hudson 
and the charm of the Catskills. At his transmuting touch 
the legends that clung to the secluded valleys of Eastern 
New York became the folklore of the American people. 
His countrymen were provincial, and he broadened their 
horizon. Through his eyes they looked beyond the 
Atlantic, and across that wider and deeper sea which 
divides the present from the past. In his writings he 
gave them one of the best gifts that a man can bestow upon 
his fellows — a source of refined and ennobling pleasure. 

While the Knickerbocker History is the most purely 
original of Irving's productions, while the biographies 
and histories have the value that results from conscien- 
tious work combined with literary skill, the Sketch Book 
is on the whole the most characteristic expression of the 
author's genius. Irving was at his best in short sketches. 
If not the originator of the modern short story, he was 
certainly the writer who gave to that species of literary 
composition its artistic form.^ There are greater histories 



INTR OD UC TION xix 

than the Conqicest of Granada, and biographies that show 
a stronger grasp than the Columbus or the Washington ; 
but it is not easy to find a short story that excels Rip 
Van Winkle. 

Some of the articles in the Sketch Book have lost their 
freshness because the themes of which they treat have 
become hackneyed ; others, like the Little Britai7i and the 
Mutability of Literal u?-e, possess an interest only for those 
who love to get away from the actual world and lose them- 
selves in a dreamy past. The Wife, a sketch that in its 
day was fervently admired, rings false in the ear of the 
average modern reader — although he who knows Irving 
well cannot but feel that the sentiment which inspired 
it was genuine. yC Notwithstanding these drawbacks the 
Sketch Book as a whole possesses rare literary merit. The 
language in which it is written is a trifle antiquated 
because of its leisurely flow and its swelling periods ; but 
the reader who delights in musical prose, in prose which 
expresses by its form the varying mood of the writer, 
may well go to this volume. /^The Rip Van Winkle is an 
artistic gem ; the sketch of Westminster in its solemn 
harmony suggests the very spirit of the ancient abbey ; 
the description of Baltus Van Tassel's farm, in the 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow, is the work of a master ; and 
there is scarcely apiece in the book that does not contain 
passages of genuine beauty. 

Like all true artists, Irving at his best has a style that 
defies analysis. It is the expression of the whole nature 
of the man. His goodness, his kindliness, his love of 
beauty, his sense of humor, — all these and something 
more which cannot be defined go to produce what we 
know as Irving's style. It is these qualities embodied 
in literary form that make the Sketch Book one of the 
treasures of American literature. 



XX 



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SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDENTS 

BOOKS AND ARTICLES RELATING TO IRVING 
AND HIS WORKS 

The student who would come into sympathetic relations with 
Irving should read, first of all, Charles Dudley Warner's Washington- 
Irving {American Men of Letters Series, 1881) and The Work of Wash- 
ington Irving, by the same author — a volume of sixty pages, pub- 
lished in 1893. The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by his 
nephew, Pierre M. Irving (4 vols., 1862), makes the reader still better 
acquainted with the " dear and good Washington Irving." Thack- 
eray's sympathetic sketch, in his Roundabout Papers : Nil Nisi 
Bonum, should be read without fail, and also the well-known lines 
in Lowell's Fable for Critics. Studies of Irving, by Charles Dudley 
Warner, William Cullen Bryant, and George P. Putnam (Irving's 
publisher), published in 1880, is an interesting volume. (Bryant's 
article can also be found in his Prose Writings, vol. i., 1884, and 
Putnam's in the Atlantic for November, i860.) There is a discrim- 
inating and suggestive chapter on Irving in Prof. Barrett Wendell's 
Literary History of America (just published). The Critic for 
March 31, 1883, contains several papers of value relating to 
Irving and his works ; among them, one by Oliver Wendell Holmes 
and one by Edmund W. Gosse. There is an illustrated article on 
Irving in American Bookmen, by M. A. DeW. Howe (1898) ; and 
portraits of him can be found in Harper's Magazine for April, 1883 ; 
in the Century for May, 1887 ; and in the Maclise Portrait Gallery 
(1883). The student who desires to know more of Irving in his 
relations to the development of literature in the United States 
should read about him and his period in Professor Wendell's book, 
already mentioned ; in American Literature, by Julian Hawthorne 
and Leonard Lemon (1891) ; or in Initial Studies of American 
Letters, by Prof. Henry A. Beers (1895). 



SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDENTS xxxi 



OTHER WORKS RELATING TO IRVING 

Daniel J. Hill : Washington Irving : American Authors Series 
(1879). Edwin W. Morse: Washington Irving: Warner Classics 
— Historians and Essayists (1899). G. W. Green: Biographical 
Studies (i860). Donald G. Mitchell: Bound Together; A Sheaf of 
Papers (1884). Allibone : Dictionary of Authors (contains a useful 
bibliography). Tuckerman : Homes of American Authors; Irving 
and Sunny side (1853). Edward Everett: Irving and His Friends 
(1863). Francis Jeffrey : Contributions to the Edinburgh Review 
(1846). Washington Irving: Commemoration of the 100th Anni- 
versary of His Birth (1883). The Critic for March 31, 1883, — the 
Irving Centenary Number, — contains, besides several interesting 
articles, a fairly complete bibliography of Irving. For more recent 
works, see Poole's Index and the catalogues of large libraries. 

IRVING'S WORKS 

Articles in the Daily Chronicle, by "Jonathan Oldstyle " (1802) ; 
Contributions to the Salmagundi (1807-1808); History of New York, 
by " Diedrich Knickerbocker" (1809); Articles in the Analectic 
Magazine (1813-1814); Sketch Book, by "Geoffrey Crayon" (1819, 
1820); Bracebridge Hall (1822); Tales of a Traveller (1824); Life 
and Voyages of Columbus (1828) ; Same abridged (1829) ; Chronicle 
of the Conquest of Granada (1829) ; Voyages of the Companions of 
Columbus (1831); Tales of the Alhambra (1832); Abbotsford and 
News lead Abbey (1835) ; Tour on the Prairies (1835) ; Legends of 
the Conquest of Spain (1835) ; Astoria (1836) ; Adventures of Captain 
Bonneville (1837) ; Life of Margaret Davidson (1840) ; Biography 
of Goldsmith (1841) ; Life of Thomas Campbell in Stone's History 
of Wyoming (1841) ; Life of Goldsmith (1849) '■> Mahomet and His 
Successors (1850) ; Wolf erf s Roost (1855) 5 Life of Washington 
(1855-1859). 

USEFUL REFERENCE BOOKS 

Murray's New English Dictionary (not completed), the most 
exhaustive English dictionary ever undertaken; Century Diction- 
ary and Century Cyclopcedia of Names ; Webster's International 



xxxn THE SKETCH BOOK 

Dictionary ; Encyclopedia Britannic a, 9th Ed. ; Brewer : Reader 's 
Handbook and Dictionary of Phrase and Fable; Wheeler: Noted 
Names of Fiction and Familiar Allusiotis ; Bartlett : Familiar Quota- 
tions ; Allibone : Dictionary of Authors ; Lippincott : Biographical 
Dictionary; Dictionary of National Biography (British); Ryland : 
Chronological Outlines of English Literature; Haydn: Dictionary 
of Dates ; Ploetz : Epitome of Universal History ; Hassall : European 
History (476-187 1 ) ; Larned : History for Ready Reference ; Harper : 
Book of Facts; Wheatley and Cunningham: Lo?idon Past and 
Present. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



" I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator 
of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts, which, 
methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene." 

Burton. 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 



The following papers, with two exceptions, were written in 
England, and formed but part of an intended series, for which 
I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature 
a plan, however, circumstances compelled me to send them 
piece-meal to the United States, where they were published 5 
from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my 
intention to publish them in England, being conscious that 
much of their contents would be interesting only to American 
readers, and, in truth, being deterred by the severity with 
which American productions had been treated by the British 10 
press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in 
this occasional manner, they began to find their way across the 
Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the 
London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London 15 
bookseller intended to publish them in a collective form. I 
determined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they 
might at least have the benefit of my superintendence and re- 
vision. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I had 
received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the emi- 20 
nent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly 
attentions, and left them with him for examination, informing 
him that should he be inclined to bring them before the public, 
I had materials enough on hand for a second volume. Several 
days having elapsed without any communication from Mr. 25 
Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I construed his 
silence into a tacit rejection of my work. 

3 



4 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 

numbers I had left with him might be returned to me. The 
following was his reply : 

My dear Sir, — 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind in- 
5 tentions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect 
for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with 
work-people at this time, and I have only an office to transact busi- 
ness in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I should have done 
myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

io If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your pres- 
ent work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of 
it which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts be- 
tween us, without which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — 
but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most 

1 5 ready to attend to any future plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any 
further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republi- 
cation in Great Britain rested entirely with me ; but I appre- 

20 hended the appearance of a spurious edition. I now thought 
of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated 
by him with much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; 
but first I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then 
Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception 

25 I had experienced from him at Abbotsford a few years pre- 
viously, and by the favorable opinion, he had expressed to 
others of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the 
printed numbers of the Sketch Book in a parcel by coach, and 
at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the 

30 pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken 
place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of my 
pen all-important to me ; I begged him, therefore, to look over 
the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 5 

they would bear European republication, to ascertain whether 
Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's 
address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to his residence 
in the country. By the very first post I received a reply, before 5 
he had seen my work. 

" I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached 
Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse 
with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your views 
— I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure." 10 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the 
quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and effi- 
cient good will which belonged to his nature, he had already 
devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to 15 
be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable 
talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary informa- 
tion. The appointment of the editor, for which ample funds 
were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, 
with the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This situ- 20 
ation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly offered to 
me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat 
of a political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that 
the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit. me. "Yet I 
risk the question," added he, '-'because I know no man so well 25 
qualified for this important task, and perhaps because it will 
necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my proposal does not 
suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and there is no harm 
done. 'And for my love I pray you wrong me not.' If, on 
the contrary, you think it could be made to suit you, let me 30 
know as soon as possible, addressing Castle Street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I am just 
come here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is posi- 
tively beautiful, and increases my desire to crijnp you, if it be 
possible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such 35 
a matter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as 
much as we possibly can." 



6 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, 
which underwent some modifications in the copy sent : 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. 
I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ; 
5 but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you 
that warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. 
Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it 
evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I have 
myself." 

io I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly un- 
fitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political 
opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. 
"My whole course of life," I observed, "has been desultory, 
and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any 

15 stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my 
talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of 
my mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and 
training may bring me more into rule, but at present I am as 
useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians 

20 or a Don Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; 
writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally 
shift my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects 
before me, or whatever rises in my imagination ; and hope to 

25 write better and more copiously by and by. 

"I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very good- 
for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel 
inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he 

30 will encourage me to further enterprise ; and it will be some- 
thing like trading with a gipsy for the fruits of his prowlings, 
who may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, 
and at another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my 

35 declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. He 
then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence ; 
entered into a detail of the various terms upon which arrange- 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 7 

ments were made between authors and booksellers, that I might 
take my choice ; expressing the most encouraging confidence 
of the success of my work, and of previous works which I had 
produced in America. "I did no more," added he, "than open 
the trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if you will take the 5 
trouble to write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your 
overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of 
consequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London 
in the course of a month, and whatever my experience can 
command is most heartily at your command. But I can add 10 
little to what I have said above, except my earnest recommen- 
dation to Constable to enter into the negotiation." * 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I 
had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, 
but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and 15 
let it sink or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that 
effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth 
in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on 
one's own account ; for the booksellers set their face against 20 
the circulation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to 
themselves. But they have lost the art of altogether damming 
up the road in such cases between the author and the public, 
which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in 

1 I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's 
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our correspond- 
ence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously T had sent 
Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems 
published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the " nigromancy " of 
the American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. 
Scott observes : " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's name for 
the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am 
not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with 
much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I 
had taken special care they should never see any of those things during their 
earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with 
a feather like a may-pole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a 
scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th 
dragoons." 



8 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 

John Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord 
Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you 
have only to be known to the British public to be admired by 
them, and I would not say so unless I really was of that opinion. 
5 " If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called 
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice 
of your works in the last number : the author is a friend of 
mine, to whom I have introduced you in your literary capacity. 
His name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, 

10 and who will soon be intimately connected with my family. My 
faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illus- 
trated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consider- 
ation of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more 
so when 

1 5 Your name is up, and may go 

From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in Lon- 



don about the middle of the month, and promise myself great 
pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand." 

20 The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in 
London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller 
unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which 
a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had been 
called to it by the extracts which had previously appeared in 

25 the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken by the edi- 
tor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, 
when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was 
over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him 

30 for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious 
than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through 
his favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to 
undertake the future publication of the work which he had 
previously declined. A further edition of the first volume was 

35 struck off and the second volume was put to press, and from 
• that time Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 9 

all his dealings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had 
obtained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of 
Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 
Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that I 
am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude 
to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging 
my obligations to him. — But who of his literary contemporaries 
ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not experience 
the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 

W. I. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 

" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole 
to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short 
time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his 
mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 

Lily's Euphues. 

I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observ- 
ing strange characters and manners. Even when a 
mere child I began my travels, and made many tours 
of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of 
my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents 5 
and the emolument of the town-crier. As I gre^ into 
boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. -My 
holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the sur- 
rounding country. I made myself familiar with all its 
places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot 10 
where a murder or robbery had been committed, or a 
ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added 
greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits 
and customs, and conversing with their sages and great 
men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 15 
summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched 
my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was 
astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 



12 THE SKETCH BOOK 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and 
in devouring their contents I neglected the regular 
exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander 

5 about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the 
parting ships, bound to distant climes ; with what 
longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the 
earth ! 

10 Further reading and thinking, though they brought 
this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only 
served to make it more decided. I visited various parts 
of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of 
fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek 

15 elsewhere its gratification, for on no country have the 
charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her 
mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her moun- 
tains, with their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming 
with wild fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, thunder- 

20 ing in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with 
spontaneous verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in 
solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where 
vegetation puts forth all its magnificence ; her skies, 
kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious 

25 sunshine; — no, never need an American look beyond 
his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural 
scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and 
poetical association. There were to be seen the mas- 

30 terpieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated 
society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local 
custom. My native country was full of youthful prom- 
ise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of 
age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 13 

and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed 
to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement 
— to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — 
to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate on the 
falling tower — to escape, in short, from the common- 5 
place realities of the present, and lose myself among 
the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the 
great men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great 
men in America : not a city but has an ample share of 10 
them. I have mingled among them in my time, and 
been almost withered by the shade into which they cast 
me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as 
the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a 
city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; 15 
for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that 
all animals degenerated in America, and man among the 
number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must there- 
fore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak 
of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson, and in this idea 26 
I was confirmed, by observing the comparative impor- 
tance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers 
among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in 
their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am 25 
degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my rov- 
ing passion gratified. I have wandered through different 
countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of 
life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye 30 
of a philosopher ; but rather with the sauntering gaze 
with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from 
the window of one print-shop to another ; caught some- 
times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK 

distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness 
of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists 
to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port-folios 
filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for 
5 the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look 
over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how 
my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects 
studied by every regular traveller who would make a 

10 book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an 
unlucky landscape painter, who had travelled on the 
continent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclina- 
tion, had sketched in nooks and corners and by-places. 
His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages 

15 and landscapes and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected 
to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the Cascade of 
Terni, or the Bay of Naples ; and had not a single glacier 
or volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What 's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he 
has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary- 
absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a 
state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid 
impressions. The vast space of waters that separates 5 
the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. 
There is no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, 
the features and population of one country blend almost 
imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy 10 
until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched 
at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene 
and a connected succession of persons and incidents, 
that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of 15 
absence and separation. We drag, it is true, "a length- 
ening chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the 
chain is unbroken: we can trace it back link by link; 
and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But 

*5 



16 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us con- 
scious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of 
settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It 
interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between 
5 us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest and fear 
and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return 
precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw 
the last blue line of my native land fade away like a 

10 cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one 
volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for 
meditation before I opened another. That land, too, 
now vanishing from my view, which contained all most 
dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — 

15 what changes might take place in me, before I should 
visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to 
wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain cur- 
rents of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether 
it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his child- 

20 hood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the 

25 deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the 
mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over 
the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top of a calm 
day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom 
of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden 

30 clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some 
fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my 
own; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling 
their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
shores. 



THE VOYAGE 17 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe with which I looked down from my giddy 
height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth 
gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form 5 
above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting, like 
a spectre through the blue waters. My imagination 
would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the 
watery world beneath me; of the finny herds that roam 
its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless monsters that 10 
lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and of 
those w T ild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen 
and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. 15 
How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to 
rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious 
monument of human invention, which has in a manner 
triumphed over wind and wave, has brought the ends 
of the world into communion, has established an inter- 20 
change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of 
the north all the luxuries of the south, has diffused the 
light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life, 
and has thus bound together those scattered portions of 
the human race between which nature seemed to have 25 
thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
a distance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 30 
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, 
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to 
this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the 
waves. There was no trace by which the name of the 



18 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently 
drifted about for many months ; clusters of shellfish had 
fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its 
sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their strug- 
5 gle has long been over — they have gone down amidst 
the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening 
among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like 
the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell 
the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted 

10 after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted 
fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, 
the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some 
casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has 
expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread 

15 — and dread into despair! Alas! not one memento may 
ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be 
known is, that she sailed from her port, " and was 
never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 

20 dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been 
fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indi- 
cations of one of those sudden storms which will some- 
times break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. 

25 As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, 
that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his 
tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck 
with a short one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship 

30 across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy 
fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
for us to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night 
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 



THE VOYAGE 19 

at the masthead, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smack- 
ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate through 
the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a 5 
sail ahead!' — it was scarcely uttered before we were 
upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with 
her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and 
had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just 
amidships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel 10 
bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her 
and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck 
was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin; they just 
started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by 15 
the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with 
the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us 
out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry! 
It was some time before we could put the ship about, 
she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly 20 
as we could guess, to the place where the smack had 
anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the 
dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we 
might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all was 
silent — we never saw or heard anything of them more." 25 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was 
a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken 
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black col- 3° 
umn of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes 
of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows 
and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The 
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and 



20 THE SKETCH BOOK 

were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As 
I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these 
roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained 
her balance or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
5 would dip into the water: her bow was almost buried 
beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge 
appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a 
dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the 
shock. 

10 When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- 
ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of 
the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as 
the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As 

15 I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, 
and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : 
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might 
give him entrance. 

20 A line day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 

25 gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is 
time to get to shore. 

30 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" land ! " was given from the masthead. None but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's 
bosom when he first comes in sight of Europe. There 



THE VOYAGE 21 

is a volume of associations with the very name. It is 
the land of promise, teeming with everything of which 
his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 5 
feverish excitement. The ships of war that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast, the headlands of Ire- 
land stretching out into the channel, the Welsh moun- 
tains towering into the clouds, — all were objects of 
intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I recon- 10 
noitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and 
green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an 
abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village 
church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill, — all 15 
were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged 
with people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expect- 
ants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the 20 
merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew 
him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands 
were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thought- 
fully and walking to and fro, a small space having been 
accorded him by the crowd in deference to his tempo- 25 
rary importance. There were repeated cheerings and 
salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, 
as friends happened to recognize each other. I particu- 
larly noticed one young woman of humble dress but 
interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from 30 
among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it 
neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. 
She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a 
faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor 



22 THE SKETCH BOOK 

who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the 
sympathy of every one on board. When the weather 
was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him 
on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so in- 
5 creased that he had taken to his hammock, and only 
breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he 
died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the 
river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a 
countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 

10 wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. 
But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his fea- 
tures ; it read at once a whole volume of sorrow ; she 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
wringing them in silent agony. 

15 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consulta- 
tions of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. 
I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I 
stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that 

20 I was a stranger in the land. 



ROSCOE 

In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine forever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a 
liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good library 
and spacious reading-room, and is the great literary- 
resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, 5 
you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking person- 
ages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my 
attention was attracted to a person just entering the 
room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form- that 10 
might once have been commanding, but it was a little 
bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble 
Roman style of countenance ; a head that would have 
pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on 
his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy 15 
there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic 
soul. There was something in his whole appearance 
that indicated a being of a different order from the 
bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 20 
Roscoe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of 
veneration. This, then, was an author of celebrity; 
this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth 

23 



24 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have com- 
muned even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, 
as we are in our country, to know European writers only 
by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other 
5 men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling 
with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of 
life. They pass before our imaginations like superior 
beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, and 
surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

10 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked 
my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances 
and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. 
Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is 

15 interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to 
create themselves, springing up under every disadvan- 
tage, and working their solitary but irresistible way 
through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight 
in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it 

20 would rear legitimate dulness to maturity, and to glory 
in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. 
She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though 
some may perish among the stony places of the world, 
and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early 

25 adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even 
in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sun- 
shine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in 

30 a place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary 
talent ; in the very market-place of trade ; without for- 
tune, family connections, or patronage ; self-prompted, 
self-sustained, and almost self-taught; he has conquered 
every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, hav- 



ROSCOE 25 

ing become one of the ornaments of the nation, has 
turned the whole force of his talents and influence to 
advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced 5 
me particularly to point him out to my countrymen. 
Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among 
the many distinguished authors of this intellectual na- 
tion. They, however, in general, live but for their own 
fame or their own pleasures. Their private history pre- 10 
sents no lesson to the world, or perhaps a humiliating 
one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they 
are prone to steal away from the bustle and common- 
place of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness 
of lettered ease; and to revel in scenes of mental, but 15 
exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the 
accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up 
in no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has 
gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; 20 
he has planted bowers by the wayside for the refresh- 
ment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened 
pure fountains where the laboring man may turn aside 
from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the 
living streams of knowledge. There is a "daily beauty 25 
in his life," on which mankind may meditate and grow 
better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because 
inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a picture 
of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within 
every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not 30 
exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention 
of the citizens of our young and busy country, where 
literature and the elegant arts must grow up side by side 



26 THE SKETCH BOOK 

with the coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must 
depend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion 
of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled 
patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
5 pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public- 
spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely 
it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like 

10 his own Lorenzo de' Medici, on whom he seems to have 
fixed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has 
interwoven the history of his life with the history of his 
native town, and has made the foundations of its fame 
the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liv- 

15 erpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is 
elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing 
merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from 
it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of literature. 
By his own example and constant exertions he has 

20 effected that union of commerce and the intellectual 
pursuits so eloquently recommended in one of his latest 
writings, 1 and has practically proved how beautifully 
they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each 
other. The noble institutions for literary and scientific 

25 purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are 
giving such an impulse to the public, mind, have mostly 
been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, 
by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly in- 
creasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which 

30 promises* to vie in commercial importance with the me- 
tropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambi- 
tion of mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has 
effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. 
1 Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



ROSCOE 27 

In America we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — 
in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was 
told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could 
not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I consid- 
ered him far above the reach of pity. Those who live 5 
only for the world and in the world may be cast down 
by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not 
to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but 
drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the 
superior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of 10 
men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad 
in search of less worthy associates. He is independent 
of the world around him. He lives with antiquity and 
posterity ; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of 
studious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous 15 
aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a 
mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited 
by those elevated meditations which are the proper ali- 
ment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from 
heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 20 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I 
was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of 
Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some 
ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we 25 
came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the 
Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it 
had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. 
A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into 30 
a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a 
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadowland ; while the Welsh mountains, blended with 
clouds and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 



28 THE SKETCH BOOK 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days 
of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant 
hospitality and literary retirement. The house was 
now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the 
5 study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have 
mentioned. The windows were closed — the library was 
gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering 
about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers 
of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain 

io that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, 
but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the 
toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, 
which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from 

15 many of which he had drawn the materials for his 
Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer of 
the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. 
The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers 
to get some part of the noble vessel that had been 

20 driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous 
associations, we might imagine something whimsical in 
this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pig- 
mies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending 
for the possession of weapons which they could not 

25 wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of 
speculators, debating with calculating brow over the 
quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 
author ; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with 
which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into 

30 the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the 
studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to 
have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have 



ROSCOE 29 

been the only circumstance that could provoke the 
notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear 
these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts 
and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. 
When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these 5 
only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, 
and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid 
civility and commonplace, these only continue the un- 
altered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with 
that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor 10 
deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due 
to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never 
have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, 15 
be given for the circumstance, which it would be diffi- 
cult to combat with others that might seem merely 
fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an oppor- 
tunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind 
struggling under misfortunes, by one of the most deli- 20 
cate, but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. 
It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius 
properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes 
mingled and confounded with other men. His great 
qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar 25 
with the common materials which form the basis even 
of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's towns- 
men may regard him merely as a man of business ; 
others as a politician ; all find him engaged like them- 
selves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, 30 
by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even 
that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character 
which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may 
cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK 

who do not know that true worth is always void of 
glare and pretension. But the man of letters who 
speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of 
Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it inquires 
5 where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary land- 
mark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar. — He is, like Pompey's Column at Alexandria, 
towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to 
10 his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the 
preceding article. If anything can add effect to the 
pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is 
the conviction that the whole is no effusion of fancy, 
but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart. 

TO MY BOOKS. 

15 As one who, destined from his friends to part, 

Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 
And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
20 Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 

My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
25 And all your sacred fellowship restore : 

When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



_ ea"z rftex I222 : : : six t: remark the fortitude ~ ixh 
whizh ~ zmer sustain the m:s: : verv xelmxxr. reverses ::' 

of 2 — iz 222 rrrszrzre 212: in the dust, seex: :: rill 
irrth all tire energies ::' vie srfter sex, and zzive suzh ; 
::::::::::y::i:e-::::::: their zharacrer that 2: times 
it approaches to sublim i -- N z thing can be more touch- 
i:\z than :: behzld 2 szfr :z: termer female. - v.: 222 
beea ill v-eikness 2122 2ere2ze2:e. 222 alive :: every 

. rruzzbmess. —jiile vtzzvz me mzsuerzus rams :z 
:: life, suddenly rismr. in 2ez:2 fzrze :: be me zm- 
fzrter and surmzrt :: he: husband under misfzrtune. ::: 

22 msb ikimr; xrxmess the bitTerns: blasts 

of adversity. 

As the "vine - 21:2 22s izxz; : Ined its mmexil zzlxazze :; 
abzuz :z: :2k 22:1 1:::: lifted by :: int: sunshine, "-nil. 
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling 



::::.z i: — izh its 
tered boughs, so 
t22t -vrrvtv. "vt: 
man in his happi 
when smitten w: 






bind z;: its shat- 
I by I rovidence 

and o rn am e 2 : : : : : 

stay ;.:.: sola 
•vmdinz: herself 



32 THE SKETCH BOOK 

into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- 
ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 
I was once congratulating a friend, who had around 
him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest 
5 affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he with 
enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you 
are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; 
if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And 
indeed I have observed that a married man falling into 

10 misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the 
world than a single one; partly because he is more stim- 
ulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; 
but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved 

15 by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive 
by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humil- 
iation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of 
which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt 
to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely 

20 and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some 
deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, 
of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Les- 
lie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who 

25 had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. 
She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was 
ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging 
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those 
delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery 

30 about the sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy 
tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an 
harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and some- 
what serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have 



THE WIFE 33 

often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze 
upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers 
made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, 
her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she 
sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm. 5 
her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly 
person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up 
to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride 
and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely 
burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple 10 
set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited 
marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have 
embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had 
not been married many months, when, by a succession of 15 
sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found 
himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept 
his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard 
countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a 
protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupport- 20 
able was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 
presence of his wife : for he could not bring himself to 
overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with 
the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with 
him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, 25 
and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid 
attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly 
powers and tender blandishments to win him back to 
happiness : but she only drove the arrow deeper into his 
soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more 30 
torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her 
wretched. "A little while,"' thought he. u and the smile 
will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from 
those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK 

with sorrow; and the happy heart, which now beats 
lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine 
by the cares and miseries of the world." 

At Tength he came to me one day, and related his 
5 whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When 
I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know 
all this ?" — At the question he burst into an agony of 
tears. " For God's sake!" cried he, "if you have any 
pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of 

10 her that drives me almost to madness ! " 

"And why not ? " said I. "She must know it sooner 
or later; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intel- 
ligence may break upon her in a more startling manner 
than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those 

15 we love soften the hardest tidings. Besides, you are 
depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and 
not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that 
can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of 
thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some- 

20 thing is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love 
will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and out- 
raged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- 
cealed from it." 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give 

25 to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a 
beggar! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — 
all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi- 
gence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged 

30 her down from the sphere in which she might have con- 
tinued to move in constant brightness — the light of every 
eye — the admiration of every heart! — How can she bear 
poverty ? she has been brought up in all the refinements 
of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been 



THE WIFE 35 

the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will 
break her heart ! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm 
had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I 5 
resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- 
fully, but positively. 

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is neces- 
sary she should know it, that you may take the steps 10 
proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You 
must change your style of living — nay," observing a 
pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let that 
afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your hap- 
piness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm 15 
friends, who will not think the worse of you for being 
less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require 
a palace to be happy with Mary — " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, 
" in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty 20 
and the dust! — I could — I could — God bless her! — 
God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport of 
grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me she can 25 
be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of 
pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent 
energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she 
will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. 
There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly 30 
fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosper- 
ity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of 
his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK 

she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery 
trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner 
and the figurative style of my language that caught the 
5 excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had 
to deal with ; and following up the impression I had 
made, I finished by persuading him to go home and 
unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 

10 some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate 
on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of 
pleasures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark 
downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out 
before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which 

15 they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable 
life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to 
which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could 
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. 
He had made the disclosure. 

20 "And how did she bear it?" 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked 
if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, 
poor girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we 

25 must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the 
abstract; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is 
allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suf- 
fers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, 

30 its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the 
real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the 
severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you 
let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure 



THE WIFE 37 

may be mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and 
soon over: whereas you otherwise suffer it in anticipa- 
tion every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much 
as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping 5 
up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have 
the courage to appear poor and you disarm poverty of its 
sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly 
prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his 
wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 10 
fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the even- 
ing. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken 
a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. 
He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. 15 
The new establishment required few articles, and those 
of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his 
late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. 
That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea 
of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; 20 
for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship 
were those when he had leaned over that instrument, 
and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could 
not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in 
a doting husband. 25 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife 
had been all day superintending its arrangement. My 
feelings had become strongly interested in the progress 
of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I 
offered to accompany him. 30 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as 
he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, 
from his lips. 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK 

"And what of her?" asked I: "has anything hap- 
pened to her ? " 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be 
5 caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost 
in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and 
good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I 
10 have ever known her; she has been to me all love and 
tenderness and comfort ! " 

"Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. "You call yourself 
poor, my friend; you never were so rich — you never 
knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess 
15 in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the 
cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. 
But this is her first day of real experience ; she has 
been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has been 
20 employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments 
— she has for the first time known the fatigues of do- 
mestic employment — she has for the first time looked 
round her on a home destitute of everything elegant, — 
almost of everything convenient ; and may now be sitting 
25 down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect 
of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that 
I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, 
30 so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a com- 
plete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. 
It was humble enough in its appearance for the most 
pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A 
wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of 



THE WIFE 39 

foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over 
it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully dis- 
posed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A 
small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound 
through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we ap- 5 
proached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped 
my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice 
singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a 
little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped 10 
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a 
noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face 
glanced out at the window and vanished — a light foot- 
step was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet 
us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild 15 
flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was 
on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with 
smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are 
come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and 20 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and 
I've been gathering some of the most delicious straw- 
berries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have 
such excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and 25 
still here — Oh ! " said she, putting her arm within his, and 
looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his 
bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her 
again and again — he could not speak, but the tears 30 
gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that 
though the world has since gone prosperously with him, 
and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has 
he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York 
who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province 
and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. 

^5 His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among 
books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty 
on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, 
and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so in- 
valuable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened 

ro upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as 
a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the 
zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 

15 province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he 
published some years since. There have been various opinions 
as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, 
it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its 
scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its 

20 first appearance, but has since been completely established ; 
and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a book 
of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 
work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do much 

40 



RIP VAN WINKLE 41 

harm to his memory to say that his time might have been 
much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was 
apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did now 
and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, 
and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the 5 
truest deference and affection ; yet his errors and follies are 
remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins 
to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. 
But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is 
still held dear by many folks whose good opinion is well 10 
worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have 
gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; 
and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal or a Queen 
Anne's Farthing.] 15 



Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dis- 
membered branch of the Appalachian family, and are 
seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a 
noble height and lording it over the surrounding coun- 20 
try. Every change of season, every change of weather, 
indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change 
in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, 
and they are regarded by all the good wives far and 
near as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair 25 
and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and 
print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but 
sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, 
they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their sum- 
mits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 3° 
and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from 



42 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a village whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees 
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
village of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
5 of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the prov- 
ince, just about the beginning of the government of 
the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !), and 
there were some of the houses of the original settlers 
standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks 

10 brought from Holland, having latticed windows and 
gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 

15 while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 
a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van 
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who 
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 

20 Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
martial character of his ancestors. I have observed 
that he was a simple good-natured man ; he was, more- 
over, a kind neighbor and an obedient hen-pecked 
husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might 

25 be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him 
such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt 
to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are 
under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, 
doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery 

30 furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues 
of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, 
therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
blessing ; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 43 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all 
the good wives of the village, who as usual with the 
amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and 
never failed whenever they talked those matters over 
in their evening gossipings to lay all the blame on Dame 5 
Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to 
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories 
of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went 10 
dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a 
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on 
his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout 
the neighborhood. 15 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for 
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a 20 
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by 
a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on 
his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods 
and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few 
squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to 25 
assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a 
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian 
corn, or building stone-fences ; the women of the vil- 
lage, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and 
to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands 30 
would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to 
attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to 
doing family duty and keeping his farm in order, he 
found it impossible. 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK- 

IE fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, 
and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were 
5 continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go 
astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to 
grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he had some 
out-door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial 

10 estate had dwindled away under his management, acre 
by acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst 
conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 

15 belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen 
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in 
a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had 

20 much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be 

25 got with least thought or trouble, and would rather 
starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to 
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect con- 
tentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he 

30 was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, 
her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said 
or did was sure to produce a torrent of household elo- 
quence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures 
of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 



RIP VAN WINKLE 45 

habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast 
up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 
provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was 
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the 
house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen- 5 
pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of 10 
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as 
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but 
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all- 
besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment 15 
Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to 
the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at 
Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom- 
stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping 20 
precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mel- 
lows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool 
that grows keener with constant use. For a long while 25 
he used to console himself, when driven from home, by 
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos- 
ophers, and other idle personages of the village, which 
held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, desig- 
nated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the 30 
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a 
long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village 
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. 
But it would have been worth any statesman's money to 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK 

have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took 
place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they 
would listen to the contents as drawled out by Derrick 
5 Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little 
man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic 
word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would 
deliberate upon public events some months after they 
had taken place. 

to The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- 
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat 
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid 
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that 

15 the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as 
accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely 
heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
adherents, however (for every great man has his adher- 
ents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather 

20 his opinions. When anything that was read or related 
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehe- 
mently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry 
puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke 
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 

25 clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth 
and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would 
gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 

30 denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage 
and call the members all to naught ; nor was that august 
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the dar- 
ing tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him out- 
right with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 47 

Poor Rij> was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 
his only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm 
and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and 
stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes 
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents 5 
of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as 
a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he 
would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; 
but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never 
want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his 10 
tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can 
feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment 
with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 15 
parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his 
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes 
had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. 
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 20 
that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening 
between the trees he could overlook all the lower coun- 
try for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a dis- 
tance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on 
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a 2 5 
purple cloud or the sail of a lagging bark here and there 
sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 30 
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their long blue shadows over the valleys ; h^. saw that it 
would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encoun- 
tering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
5 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow wing- 
ing its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought 
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to 
io descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the 
still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 

— at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving 
a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fear- 
fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague appre- 

15 hension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously in the 
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly 
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to 
see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 

20 place, but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- 
borhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to 
yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short 

25 square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- 
zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion 

— a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pairs 
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated 
with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the 

30 knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed 
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis- 
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his 
usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one another, they 



RIP VAN WINKLE 49 

clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of 
a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 5 
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder- 
showers which often take place in mountain heights, 
he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to 
a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- 10 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impend- 
ing trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion had 
labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled 15 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of 
liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 20 
presented themselves. On the level spot in the centre 
was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- 25 
mous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large beard, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another 
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted 
by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock's 30 
tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colors. 
There was one who seemed to be the commander. He 
was a stout old gentleman with a weather-beaten coun- 
tenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, 



50 THE SKETCH BOOK 

high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- 
heeled shoes with roses in them. The whole group 
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting 
in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, 
5 and which had been brought over from Holland at the 
time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious si- 

10 lence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of 
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted 
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 
which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

15 As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with 
such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, 
lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within 
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now 

20 emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and 

made signs to him to wait upon the company. He 

obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor 

in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 

25 even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of 
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, 
and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste 
provoked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the 

30 flagon so often that at length his senses were over- 
powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually 
declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 



RIP VAN WINKLE 51 

rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The 
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, 
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure 
mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not 
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences 5 
before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among 
the rocks — the woe-begone party at nine-pins — the 
flagon — "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" 
thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame 10 
Van Winkle!" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 15 
grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of 
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the 20 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was 
to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand 
his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself 25 
stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought 
Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 30 
glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonish- 
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap- 
ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 



52 THE SKETCH BOOK 

murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of 
birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped 
up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their 
5 coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- 

io penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in 
a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 
then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered by the 

15 cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff 
at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? 
the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 

20 want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shoul- 
dered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

25 As he approached the village he met a number of peo- 

' pie, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised 

him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every 

one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a 

different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. 

30 They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and 
whenever they cast their eyes upon him invariably stroked 
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in- 
duced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his 
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 



RIP VAN WINKLE 53 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, 
and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one 
of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was 5 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which had 
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows 
— everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; 10 
he began to doubt whether both he and the world around 
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil- 
lage, which he had left but the day before. There stood 
the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at 
a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely a*s it 15 
had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — "That 
flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expect- 20 
ing every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van 
Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof 
fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the 
hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 25 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an 
unkind cut indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 
" has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, 30 
forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness 
overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for 
his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a 
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety- 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats 

5 and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "the 
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the 
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn 
of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, 

10 and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular 
assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and 
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had 
smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was sin- 

15 gularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for 
one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand in- 
stead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked 
hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
General Washington. 

20 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the 
people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for 

25 the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering, clouds of tobacco- 
smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient 
newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking 

30 fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — mem- 
bers of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of 
seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect 
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 



RIP VAN WIN-RLE 55 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 5 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired " on which side he voted? " Rip stared in 
vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip 10 
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman in a sharp cocked 
hat made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 
planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 15 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes 
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, 
demanded in an austere tone, what brought him to 
the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at 
his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 20 
village? — "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat 
dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, 
and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "A 
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 25 
him !" It was with great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having 
assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again 
of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and 
whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured 3° 
him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
search of some of his neighbors who used to keep about 
the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 



56 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 

replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, 

5 he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was 

a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell 

all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 

io war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 

Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot 

of Anthony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 

again." 

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " 
15 " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- 
eral, and is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- 
20 ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
which he could not understand: war — congress — Stony 
Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip 
Van Winkle?" 
25 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, "Oh, 
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning 
against the' tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, 
30 and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- 
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and 
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst 
of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded 
who he was, and what was his name? 



RIP VAN WINKLE 57 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no 
— that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself 
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm 5 
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their 
foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the 
gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at 10 
the very suggestion of. which the self-important man in 
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this 
critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his 15 
looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you 
little fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name of 
the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 20 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 25 
home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was 
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it 
with a faltering voice : 3c 

" Where's your mother ? " 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England 
peddler." 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I 
am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle 

5 once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know 
poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 

10 "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared 

15 when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each 
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the 
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down 
the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon 

20 which there was a general shaking of the head through- 
out the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up 
the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that 

25 name who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the prov- 
ince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the 
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and 
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at 
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 

30 manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange 
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick 
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, 



RIP VAN WINKIE 59 

kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his 
crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian 
eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. 
That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch 5 
dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; 
and that he himself had heard one summer afternoon 
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the elec- 10 
tion. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her ; 
she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery 
farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of 
the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to 
Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen 1*5 
leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to 
anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 20 
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred mak- 
ing friends among the rising generation, with whom he 
soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, 25 
he took his place once more on the bench at the inn 
door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the 
village, and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." 
It was some time before he could get into the regular 
track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the 30 
strange events that had taken place during his torpor. 
How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the 
country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and 
that instead of being a subject of his Majesty George 



60 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United 
States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of 
states and empires made but little impression on him ; 
but there was one species of despotism under which he 
5 had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. 
Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of 
the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out when- 
ever he pleased without dreading the tyranny of Dame 
Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, how- 

10 ever, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast 
up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expression 
of resignation to his fate or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to 

15 vary on some points every time he told it, which was 
doubtless owing to his having so recently awaked. It 
at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, 
and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 

20 reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon 

25 about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and 
his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- 
mon wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor- 
hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they 
might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's 

30 flagon. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 61 



NOTE 



The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested 
to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the 
Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhauser Moun- 
tain : the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to 
the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his 5 
usual fidelity : 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to 
many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the 
vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject 
to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard 10 
many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hud- 
son ; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a 
doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, 
when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so 
perfectly rational and consistent on every other point that I 15 
think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the 
bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken 
before a country justice and signed with a cross in the justice's 
own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possi- 
bility of doubt. 20 

D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book 
of Mr. Knickerbocker : 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a 
region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode 25 
of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or 
clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting 
seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be 
their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, 
and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut 30 
them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the 
skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, 
if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the 
crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded 
cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the 
sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
5 spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an 
hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black 
as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider 
in the midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe 
betide the valleys ! 

10 In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes 
he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead 

15 the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests 
and among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! 
ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or 
raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 

20 great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, 
from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the 
name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, 
the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in 

25 the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. 
This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch 
that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its 
precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost 
his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a 

30 number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of 
these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his 
retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream 
gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream 

35 made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the 
present day ; being the identical stream known by the name 
of the Kaaters-kill. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 

" Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself 
like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I 
see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled 
eyes at the full midday beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the 
literary animosity daily growing up between England 
and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of 
late with respect to the United States, and the London 
press has teemed with volumes of travels through the 5 
Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather 
than knowledge ; and so successful have they been, that, 
notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the 
nations, there is no people concerning whom the great 
mass of the British public have less pure information, 10 
or entertain more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the 
world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, 
none can equal them for profound and philosophical 
views of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions 15 
of external objects ; but when either the interest or repu- 
tation of their own country comes in collision with that 
of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget 
their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of 
splenetic remark and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 20 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place im- 
plicit confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the 

63 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK 

regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown 
islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or 
of any other tract which other travellers might be apt to 
picture out with the illusions hi their fancies ; but I 
5 would cautiously receive his account of his immediate 
neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in 
habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might 
be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his 
prejudices. 

10 It has also been the particular lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While 
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have 
been sent from England to ransack the poles, to pene- 
trate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs 

15 of barbarous nations with which she can have no per- 
manent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left 
to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, 
the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- 
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From 

20 such sources she is content to receive her information 
respecting a country in a singular state of moral and 
physical development ; a country in which one of the 
greatest political experiments in the history of the world 
is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- 

25 found and momentous studies to the statesman and the 
philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of 
America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it 
offers for contemplation are too vast and elevated for 

30 their capacities. The national character is yet in a 
state of fermentation ; it may have its frothiness and 
sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; 
it has already given proofs of powerful and generous 
qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down into 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 65 

something substantially excellent. But the causes which 
are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its 
daily indications of admirable properties, are all lost 
upon these purblind observers ; who are only affected 
by the little asperities incident to its present situation. 5 
They are capable of judging only of the surface of 
things ; of those matters which come in contact with 
their private interests and personal gratifications. They 
miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts 
which belong to an old, highly finished, and over popu- 10 
lous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor are 
crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsist- 
ence by studying the very caprices of appetite and 
self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are 
all-important in the estimation of narrow minds; which 15 
either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that 
they are more than counterbalanced among us by great 
and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some 
unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may 20 
have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, 
where gold and silver abounded and the natives were 
lacking in sagacity ; and where they were to become 
strangely and suddenly rich in some unforeseen but 
easy manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges 25 
absurd expectations produces petulance in disappoint- 
ment. Such persons become embittered against the 
country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a 
man must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth 
by industry and talent; and must contend with the 30 
common difficulties of nature and the shrewdness of 
an intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, 
or from the prompt disposition to cheer and counte- 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nance the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, 
they may have been treated with unwonted respect in 
America ; and having been accustomed all their lives to 
consider themselves below the surface of good society, 
5 and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they 
become arrogant on the common boon of civility; they 
attribute to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; 
and underrate a society where there are no artificial 
distinctions, and where by any chance such individuals 

io as themselves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information com- 
ing from such sources, on a subject where the truth is 
so desirable, would be received with caution by the 
censors of the press; that the motives of these men, 

15 their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and obser- 
vation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would 
be rigorously scrutinized before their evidence was 
admitted in such sweeping extent against a kindred 
nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and it 

20 furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. 
Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English 
critics will examine the credibility of the traveller who 
publishes an account of some distant and comparatively 
unimportant country. How warily will they compare 

25 the measurements of a pyramid or the descriptions of 
a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy 
in these contributions of merely curious knowledge : 
while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesitating 
faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and obscure 

30 writers, concerning a country with which their own is 
placed in the most important and delicate relations. 
Nay, they will even make these apocryphal volumes 
text-books, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an 
ability worthy of a more generous cause. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 67 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- 
neyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for 
the undue interest apparently taken in it by my country- 
men, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend it 
might produce upon the national feeling. We attach 5 
too much consequence to these attacks. They cannot 
do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresenta- 
tions attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs 
woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country 
continually outgrows them. One falsehood after an- 10 
other falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and 
every day we live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for 
a moment suppose their great minds stooping to so 
unworthy a combination, could not conceal our rapidly 15 
growing importance and matchless prosperity. They 
could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to 
physical and local, but also to moral causes, — to the 
political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the 
prevalence of sound moral and religious principles, 20 
which give force and sustained energy to the character 
of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowl- 
edged and wonderful supporters of their own national 
power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions 25 
of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so 
affected by the contumely she has endeavored to cast 
upon us ? It is not in the opinion of England alone 
that honor lives and reputation has its being. The 
world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its 30 
thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from 
their collective testimony is national glory or national 
disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but 



68 THE SKETCH BOOK 

little importance whether England does us justice or 
not ; it is perhaps of far more importance to herself. 
She is instilling anger and resentment into the bosom 
of a youthful nation, to grow with its growth and 
5 strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some 
of her writers are laboring to convince her, she is here- 
after to find an invidious rival and a gigantic foe, she 
may thank those very writers for having provoked rival- 
ship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all- 

10 pervading influence of literature at the present day, 
and how much the opinions and passions of mankind 
are under its control. The mere contests of the sword 
are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and 
it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget 

15 them; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart; 
they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell 
ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly sensi- 
tive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that 
any one overt act produces hostilities between two 

20 nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jeal- 
ousy and ill-will ; a predisposition to take offence. 
Trace these to their cause, and how often will they 
be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of 
mercenary writers ; who, secure in their closets, and 

25 for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom 
that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for 
it applies most emphatically to our particular case. 
Over no nation does the press hold a more absolute 

30 control than over the people of America ; for the uni- 
versal education of the poorest classes makes every 
individual a reader. There is nothing published in 
England on the subject of our country that does not 
circulate through every part of it. There is not a cal- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 69 

umny dropped from English pen, nor an unworthy sar- 
casm uttered by an English statesman, that does not 
go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent 
resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the 
fountain-head whence the literature of the language 5 
flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly 
is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and 
magnanimous feeling — a stream where the two nations 
might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. 
Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters of 10 
bitterness, the time may come when she may repent 
her folly. The present friendship of America may be of 
but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of 
that country do not admit of a doubt ; over those 
of England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. 15 
Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; should these 
reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires 
have not been exempt ; she may look back with regret 
at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation 
she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de- 20 
stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond 
the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the 
people of the United States are inimical to the parent 
country. It is one of the errors which have been 25 
diligently propagated by designing writers. There is, 
doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a gen- 
eral soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; 
but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the people 
are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, 30 
they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an 
absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of English- 
man was a passport to the confidence and hospitality 
of every family, and too often gave a transient currency 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to. the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the 
country there was something of enthusiasm connected 
with the idea of England. We looked to it with a 
hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the 
5 land of our forefathers — the august repository of the 
monuments and antiquities of our race — the birthplace 
and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal 
history. After our own country, there was none in whose 
glory we more delighted — none whose good opinion 

10 we were more anxious to possess — none towards which 
our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consan- 
guinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was 
the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, 
it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country 

15 to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept 
alive the sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be 
broken forever ? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may 

20 dispel an illusion which might have kept us in mental 
vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally 
with our true interests, and prevented the growth of 
proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the 
kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest 

25 — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make 
us cast .back a look of regret, as we wander farther and 
farther from the paternal roof, and lament the wayward- 
ness of the parent that would repel the affections of the 
child. 

30 Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the con- 
duct of England may be in this system of aspersion, 
recrimination on our part would be equally ill-judged. 
I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of 
our country, nor the keenest castigation of her slan- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 71 

derers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in 
kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which 
seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let 
us guard particularly against such a temper, for it 
would double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. 5 
Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse 
and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable 
contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted 
into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. 
If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of 10 
trade or the rancorous animosities of politics to deprave 
the integrity of her press and poison the fountain of 
public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may 
deem it her interest to diffuse error and engender 
antipathy for the purpose of checking emigration; we 15 
have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have 
we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, 
in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising 
and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, 
therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a mere 20 
spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our 
retorts are never republished in England : they fall 
short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a queru- 
lous and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour 
the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns 25 
and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, 
they circulate through our own country, and, as far as 
they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This 
last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed 
as we are entirely by public opinion, the utmost care 3° 
should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. 
Knowledge is power and truth is knowledge ; whoever, 
therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps 
the foundation of his country's strength. 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The members of a republic, above all other men, 
should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individ- 
ually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, 
and should be enabled to come to all questions of 
5 national concern with calm and unbiased judgments. 
From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, 
we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and 
delicate character with her than with any other nation ; 
questions that affect the most acute and excitable feel- 

10 ings ; and as in the adjusting of these our national 

measures must ultimately be determined by popular 

sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to 

purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from 

15 every portion of the earth, we should receive all with im- 
partiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example 
of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, 
and exercising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, 
but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring 

20 from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? They 
are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in 
rude and ignorant ages when nations knew but little 
of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries 

25 with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have 
sprung into national existence in an enlightened and 
philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable 
world and the various branches of the human family 
have been indefatigably studied and made known to each 

30 other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we 
do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the 
local superstitions of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry 
feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 73 

what is really excellent and amiable in the English char- 
acter. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative 
one, and must take our examples and models in a great 
degree from the existing nations of Europe. There is no 
country more worthy of our study than England. The 5 
spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their 
freedom of opinion — their habits of thinking on those 
subjects which concern the dearest interests and most 
sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the 10 
American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically 
excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that 
the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and 
however the superstructure may be time-worn, or over- 
run by abuses, there must be something solid in the 15 
basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the struc- 
ture of an edifice, that so long has towered unshaken 
amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding 
all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the 20 
illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English 
nation without prejudice and with determined candor. 
While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with 
which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every- 
thing English merely because it is English, let them 25 
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. 
We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol- 
ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions 
from ages of experience; and while we avoid the errors 
and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we 30 
may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national 
character, 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character must not confine his observations to 
the metropolis. He must go forth into the country ; he 
must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit 
5 castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages ; he must wander 
through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green 
lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend 
wakes and fairs and other rural festivals ; and cope with 
the people in all their conditions and all their habits and 

io humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 
and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes 
of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is 
inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- 

15 land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- 
place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 
they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of 
carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial 

20 habits of rural life. The various orders of society are 
therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of 
the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 

25 feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beau- 

74 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 75 

ties of nature and a keen relish for the pleasures and 
employments of the country. This passion seems inher- 
ent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and 
brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter 
with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural 5 
occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the 
vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as 
much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower- 
garden and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the 
conduct of his business and the success of a commercial 10 
enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals who 
are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and 
traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind 
them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark 
and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room win- 15 
dow resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot 
capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; 
and every square its mimic park, laid out with pictur- 
esque taste and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt 20 
to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. 
He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the 
thousand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and 
feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too 
commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he 25 
happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his 
mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a 
friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize 
time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. 30 
An immense metropolis like London is calculated to 
make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and 
transient meetings they can but deal briefly in common- 
places. They present but the cold superficies of charac- 



76 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ter — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be 
warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the 
5 cold formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws 
off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and 
free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the 
conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish 
its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every req- 

10 uisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- 
tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, 
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. 
He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, 
but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means 

15 of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according 
to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, 
and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. 
They have studied nature intently, and discover an ex- 

20 quisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious com- 
binations. Those charms, which in other countries she 
lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the 
haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her 
coy and furtive graces, and spread them like witchery 

25 about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 
of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like 
sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of 
gigantic trees heaping up rich piles of foliage ; the 

30 solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades with the 
deer trooping in silent herds across them, the hare 
bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly 
bursting upon the wing ; the brook, taught to wind in 
natural meanderings or expand into a glassy lake ; the 



RURAL LIFE LN ENGLAND 77 

sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming 
fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic 
temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with 
age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 5 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; 
but what most delights me is the creative talent with 
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of 
middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromis- 
ing and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- 10 
lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 
discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabili- 
ties, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and 
yet the operations of art which produce the effect are 15 
scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training 
of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice 
distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; 
the partial opening to a peep of blue distance or silver 20 
gleam of water: all these are managed with a delicate 
tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic 
touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite 
picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in 25 
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance 
in rural economy that descends to the lowest class. 
The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow 
slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The 
trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little 30 
flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained 
up against the wall and hanging its blossoms about the 
lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly 
providently planted about the house to cheat winter 



78 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green 
summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the 
influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and 
pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever 
5 Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must 
be the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes 
of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon 
the national character. I do not know a finer race of 

io men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the soft- 
ness and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank 
in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and 
strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of com- 
plexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living 

15 so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the 
invigorating recreations of the country. These hardy ex- 
ercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, 
and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even 
the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily 

20 pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, 
too, the different orders of society seem to approach 
more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate 
favorably upon each other. The distinctions between 
them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as 

25 in the cities. The manner in which property has been 
distributed into small estates and farms has established 
a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the 
classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substan- 
tial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while 

30 it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has 
infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independ- 
ence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally 
the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates 
having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 79 

and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the 
sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, 
are but casual breaks in the general system I have men- 
tioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debas- 5 
ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural 
grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of 
his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most 
elevating of external influences. Such a man may be 
simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man 10 
of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an 
intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does 
when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. 
He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to 
waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 15 
honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed 
the very amusements of the country bring men more and 
more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend 
all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great 
reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular 20 
among the inferior orders in England than they are in 
any other country ; and why the latter have endured so 
many excessive pressures and extremities, without repin- 
ing more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune 
and privilege. 25 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 
British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from 
rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature that 
abound in the British poets, that have continued down 30 
from The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance 
of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
countries appear as if they had paid nature an occa- 



80 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sional visit, and become acquainted with her general 
charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled 
with her — they have wooed her in her most secret 
haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A 
5 spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not 
rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter 
in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the 
humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the 
morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned 

io and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beauti- 
ful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the coun- 
try. A great part of the island is rather level, and would 

15 be monotonous were it not for the charms of culture: 
but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles 
and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. 
It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but 
rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 

20 quiet. Every antique farmhouse and moss-grown cot- 
tage is a picture ; and as the roads are continually wind- 
ing, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the 
eye is delighted by a continual succession of small land- 
scapes of captivating loveliness. 

25 The great charm, however, of English scenery is the 
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend cus- 
tom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of 

30 regular and peaceful existence. The old church of re- 
mote architecture, with its low massive portal, its Gothic 
tower, its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, 
in scrupulous preservation, its stately monuments of 
warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 81 

present lords of the soil, its tombstones recording suc- 
cessive generations of sturdy yeomanry whose progeny 
still plough the same fields and kneel at the same 
altar; the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti- 
quated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of vari- 5 
ous ages and occupants ; the stile and footpath leading 
from the churchyard across pleasant fields and along 
shady hedgerows, according to an immemorial right of 
way ; the neighboring village, with its venerable cot- 
tages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which 10 
the forefathers of the present race have sported; the 
antique family mansion, standing apart in some little 
rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on 
the surrounding scene : all these common features of 
English landscape evince a calm and settled security, 15 
and hereditary transmission of homebred virtues and 
local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for 
the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, 20 
to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy 
faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along 
the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing 
to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cot- 
tage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble com- 25 
forts and embellishments which their own hands have 
spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of 
affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, 
the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest en- 30 
joyments ; and I cannot close these desultory re- 
marks better, than by quoting the words of a modern 
English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable 
felicity: 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
5 Down to the cottaged vale and straw-roof 'd shed ; 

This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

10 Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers and approving heaven ; 

15 That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. 1 

1 From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



THE BROKEN HEART 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MlDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have out- 
lived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been 
brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, 
to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of 
romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. 5 
My observations on human nature have induced me to 
think otherwise. They have convinced me, that how- 
ever the surface of the character may be chilled and 
frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere 
smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant 10 
fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, 
when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are some- 
times desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true 
believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of 
his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken I S 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. 
I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to 
my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down 
many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 20 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of 
the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early 
life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks 
for fame, for fortune, for space in- the world's thought, 

83 



84 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole 
life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : 
it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
5 sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul 
in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case 
is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion 
some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness 

io — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active 
being — he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of 
varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleas- 
ure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of 
painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and 

15 taking as it were the wings of the morning, can "fly to 
the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to minis- 

20 ters of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? 
Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her 
love, her heart is like some fortress that has been cap- 
tured and sacked and abandoned, and left desolate. 
How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft 

25 cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away 
info the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted 
their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its 
side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying 
on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from 

30 the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of 
a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when 
fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, 
and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her 



THE BROKEN HEART 85 

peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The 
great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all 
the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken 
the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re- 5 
freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — 
" dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame 
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, 
after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but 10 
lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty 
should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some 
casual indisposition, that laid her low; — but no one 
knows of the mental malady which previously sapped 15 
her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of 
the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but 
with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly 
withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. 20 
We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shed- 
ding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls 
even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over 
the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast 
or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 25 

I have seen many instances of women running to 
waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from 
the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; 
and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their 
death through the various declensions of consumption, 30 
cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the 
first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of 
the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are 
well known in the country where they happened, and 



86 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I shall but give them in the manner in which they were 
related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 

E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon 

5 forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, 
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He 
was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave 

— so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. 
10 His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 

The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge 
of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication 
of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity in 
the hopeless hour of condemnation, — all these entered 

15 deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies 
lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it would be 
impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer for- 
tunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and 

20 interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish 
barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor 
of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly 
maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in for- 
tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his 

25 name, she loved him the more ardently for his very 
sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy 
even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her 
whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let those 
tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed 

30 between them and the being they most loved on earth 

— who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a 
cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely 
and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so 



THE BROKEN HEART 87 

dishonored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on 
that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those 
tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear 
the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those 
blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the 5 
heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she 
had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate 
attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. 
But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have 10 
reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she 
would have experienced no want of consolation, for the 
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. 
The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid 
her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led 15 
into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation 
and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from 
the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. 
There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and 
scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of 20 
happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud 
or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts 
of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths 
of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently 
unconscious of the world around her. She carried with 25 
her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments 
of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, 
charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at 
a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone 30 
wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it 
in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, 
lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it 
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so 



88 THE SKETCH BOOK 

wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat 
the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
5 down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about 
for some time with a vacant air that showed her insensi- 
bility to the garish scene, she began, with the capricious- 
ness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. 
She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was 

10 so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of 
wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but 
excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthu- 

15 siasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, 
who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so 
true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the 
living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts 
were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former 

20 lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited 
not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth and her sense of her own 
destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on 
the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length suc- 

25 ceeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn 
assurance that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change 
of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. 
She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an 

30 effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the 
silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into 
her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless 
decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of 
a broken heart. 



THE BROKEN HEART 89 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish 
poet, composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 5 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 10 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 15 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal 
dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ? " 
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of 
the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads 
on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of 
barrenness should teem with voluminous productions. 
5 As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 
objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually 
finding out some very simple cause for some great matter 
of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations 
about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene 

io which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book- 
making craft, and at once put an end to my astonish- 
ment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness 

15 with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in 
warm weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases 
of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an 
Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying with nearly 
equal success to comprehend the allegorical paintings 

20 on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this 
idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door 
at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but 
every now and then it would open, and some strange- 
favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal 

25 forth and glide through the rooms without noticing 

90 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 91 

any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of 
mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, 
and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, 
and to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door 
yielded to my hand with that facility with which the 5 
portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous 
knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, 
surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above 
the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged 
a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient 10 
authors. About the room were placed long tables, with 
stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, 
studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copi- 
ous notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned 15 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you 
might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or 
occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he 
shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio ; 
doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency 20 
incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 
something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell ; 
whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in 
profound silence, glide out of the room, and return 25 
shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the 
other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. 
I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a 
body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult 
sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian 30 
tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library 
in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once 
a year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring. 
him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at 



92 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the end of the year, when the magic portal once more 
swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in 
forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of 
the multitude, and to control the powers of nature. 

5 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 
me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I 
found that these mysterious personages, whom I had 

10 mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in the 
very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the 
reading-room of the great British Library — an immense 
collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom 

15 read: one of these sequestered pools of obsolete litera- 
ture, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets 
full of classic lore, or "pure English, undenled," where- 
with to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 

20 corner, and watched the process of this book manufac- 
tory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who 
sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes printed 
in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some 
work of profound erudition, that would be purchased 

25 by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed 
upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open 
upon his table, — but never read. I observed him now 
and then draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his 
pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether 

30 he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the 
stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, I 
leave to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 93 

countenance, who had all the appearance of an author 
on good terms with his bookseller. After considering 
him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up 
of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the 
trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his 5 
wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering 
over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of 
one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept 
upon precept, here a little and there a little." The con- 10 
tents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those 
of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger 
and there a thumb, "toe of frog" and "blind-worm's 
sting," with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's 
blood," to make the medley "slab and good." 15 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition 
be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not 
be the way in which Providence has taken care that the 
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works 20 
in which they were first produced ? We see that nature 
has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- 
ance of seeds from clime to clime in the maws of certain 
birds ; so that animals which in themselves are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunder- 25 
ers of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's 
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In 
like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient 
and obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of 
predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and 30 
bear fruit in a remote and distant tract .of time. Many 
of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, 
and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a 
ponderous history revives in the shape of a romance, 



94 THE SKETCH BOOK 

an old legend changes into a modern play, and a sober 
philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in 
the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn 
5 down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks 
start up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate 
trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to 
a whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 

10 into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit 
to the great law of nature which declares that all sublu- 
nary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, 
but which decrees also that their elements shall never 
perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and 

15 vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is 
transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
flourish. Thus also do authors beget authors, and hav- 
ing produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age 
they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 

20 authors who preceded them — and from whom they had 
stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I 
had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. 
Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from 

25 these works, or to the profound quiet of the room, or to 
the lassitude arising from much wandering, or to an 
unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places 
with which I am grievously afflicted, — so it was that I 
fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination con- 

3° tinued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before 
my mind's eye, .only a little changed in some of the de- 
tails. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated 
with the portraits of ancient authors, but that the num- 
ber was increased. The long tables had disappeared, 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 95 

and in place of the sage magi I beheld a ragged, thread- 
bare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great 
repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. When- 
ever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongru- 
ities common to dreams, methought it turned into a 5 
garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that 
no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular 
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a 
skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, 10 
while some of his original rags would peep out from 
among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volumi- 15 
nous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having pur- 
loined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look 
exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his 
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. 
One sickly looking gentleman was busied embroidering a 20 
very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of sev- 
eral old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illu- 
minated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from The Pa?-adise of Daintie Devices, and hav- 25 
ing put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, 
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. 
A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure 
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 30 
front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I 
perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with 
scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, 



96 THE SKETCH BOOK 

who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which 
sparkled among their own ornaments without eclipsing 
them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes 
of the old writers merely to imbibe their principles of 
5 taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to 
say that too many were apt to array themselves from 
top to toe in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. 
I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches 
and gaiters and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent 

io propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings 
had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill 
and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked 
himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral 
poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about 

15 with a fantastical lackadaisical air, "babbling about 
green fields." But the personage that most struck my 
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman in clerical 
robes, with a remarkably large and square but bald 
head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, 

20 elbowed his way through the throng with a look of 
sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a 
thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept 
majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- 

25 denly resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves! " 
I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became 
animated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, 
then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously 
for an instant upon the motley throng, and then de- 

30 scended, with fury in their eyes to claim their rifled prop- 
erty. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued 
baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored 
in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might 
be seen half a dozen old monks stripping a modern 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 97 

professor ; on another there was sad devastation carried 
into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont 
and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like 
Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more 
wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flan- 5 
ders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, men- 
tioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as 
many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as 
fierce a contention of claimants about him as about the 
dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men 10 
to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe 
and reverence fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover 
their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the 
pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, 
who was scrambling away in sore affright with half a 15 
"score of authors in full cry after him ! They were close 
upon his haunches: in a twinkling off went his wig; at 
every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away ; until 
in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk 
into a little, pursy, "chopped bald shot," and made his 20 
exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe 
of this learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate 
fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The 
tumult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber 25 
resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk 
back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy 
solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself 
wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of 
book-worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing 30 
of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a 
sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and 
so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom as to electrify the 
fraternity. 



98 THE SKE TCH BOOK 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was 
a kind of literary " preserve " subject to game-laws, and 
5 that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
license and permission. In a word I stood convicted 
of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a 
precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of 
authors let loose upon me. 



A ROYAL POET 

Though your body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound } 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, 
I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place 
full of storied and poetical associations. The very ex- 
ternal aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire 
high thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive 5 
towers like a mural crown round the brow of a lofty 
ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks 
down with a lordly air upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous 
vernal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of 10 
a man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and 
disposing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. 
In wandering through the magnificent saloons and long 
echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifference 
by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, 15 
but lingered in the chamber where hang the likenesses 
of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 
the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with 
amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of 
love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had 20 
thus enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. 
In traversing also the "large green courts," with sun- 
LofC. 99 



100 THE SKETCH BOOK 

shine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along the 
velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of 
the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his 
account of his loiterings about them in his stripling 
5 days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited 
the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First 

io of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and 

' historians, was for many years of his youth detained a 
prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower that has 
stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preserva- 
tion. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above 

15 the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps 
leads to the interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, 
furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I 
was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, 
which had once belonged to James. Hence I was con- 

20 ducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded 
magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed 
his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanci- 
ful amour, which has woven into the web of his story 
the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

25 The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate 
prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven 
he was sent from home by his father, Robert Third, and 
destined for the French court, to be reared under the 
eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery 

30 and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scot- 
land. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
fall into the hafi'ds of the English, and he was detained 



A ROYAL POET 101 

prisoner by Henry Fourth, notwithstanding that a truce 
existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train 
of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his un- 
happy father. "The news," we are told, "was brought 5 
to him while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with 
grief, that he was almost ready to give up the ghost 
into the hands of the servant that attended him. But 
being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from 
all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief 10 
at Rothesay." 1 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; 
but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated 
with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to 
instruct him in all the branches of useful knowledge 15 
cultivated at that period, and to give him those mental 
and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a 
prince. Perhaps in this respect his imprisonment was 
an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the 
more exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to 20 
imbibe that rich fund of knowledge and to cherish 
those elegant tastes which have given such a lustre to 
his memory. The picture drawn of him in early life, 
by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and 
seems rather the description of a hero of romance than 25 
of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we 
are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, 
to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert medici- 
ner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and 
sundry other instruments of music, and was expert in 30 
grammar, oratory, and poetry." 2 

With this combination of manly and delicate accom- 

1 Buchanan. 

2 Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 



102 THE SKETCH BOOK 

plishments, fitting him to shine both in active and ele- 
gant life and calculated to give him an intense relish for 
joyous existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an 
age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of 
5 his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good 
fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful 
poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the 
choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode 
and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty ; 
10 others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature 
of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the 
loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey 
of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours 
forth his soul in melody. 

15 Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
20 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. 1 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, 
that it is irrepressible, unconfmable; that when the 
real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, 
and with a necromantic power can conjure up glorious 

25 shapes and forms and brilliant visions, to make soli- 
tude populous and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. 
Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived 
round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he 
conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and 

30 we may consider the King's Quair, composed by James 
during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those 

1 Roger L'Estrange. 



A ROYAL POET 103 

beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the restraint 
and gloom of the prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady 
Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and 
a princess of the blood royal of England, of whom he 5 
became enamored in the course of his captivity. What 
gives it a peculiar value is that it may be considered 
a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and the 
story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not often 
that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. 10 
It is gratifying to the pride of a common man to find 
a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into 
his closet, and seeking to win his favor by adminis- 
tering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest 
equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all 15 
the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candi- 
date down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. 
It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's 
heart, and to find the simple affections of human nature 20 
throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to 
be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled in ad- 
versity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. 
Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, 
or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and had James 25 
been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a 
court, we should never, in all probability, have had such 
a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts 
of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts 3° 
concerning his situation, or which are connected 
with the apartment in the tower. They have thus 
a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
circumstantial truth as* to make the reader present 



104 THE SKETCH BOOK 

with the captive in his prison, and the companion of 
his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness 
of spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the 
5 idea of writing the poem. It was the still midwatch 
of a clear moonlight night ; the stars, he says, were 
twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven ; and 
" Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He 
lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to 

io beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was 
Boetius' Co7isolations of Philosophy, a work popular 
among the writers of that day, and which had been 
translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the 
high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this 

15 was one of his favorite volumes while in prison: and 
indeed it is an admirable text-book for meditation 
under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and endur- 
ing spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeath- 
ing to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet 

20 morality and the trains of eloquent but simple reason- 
ing by which it was enabled to bear up against the 
various ills of life. It is a talisman which the unfortu- 
nate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

25 After closing the volume, he turns its contents over 
in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on 
the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own 
life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his 
tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to 

30 matins ; but its sound, chiming in with his melancholy 
fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to 
write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he 
determines to comply with this intimation: he there- 
fore takes pen in hand, maizes with it a sign of the 



A ROYAL POET 105 

cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into 
the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely 
fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a 
striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in 
which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 5 
awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 
In the course of his poem he more than once bewails 
the peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely 
and inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and 
pleasure of the world in which the meanest animal 10 
indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, 
in his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of 
an amiable and social spirit at being denied the indul- 
gence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is 
nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated; they flow with 15 
a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren- 
dered more touching by their simple brevity. They 
contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated repin- 
ings which we sometimes meet with in poetry, — the 
effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of 20 
their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon 
an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations 
with acute sensibility, but having mentioned them 
passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood 
over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks 25 
forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how 
great must be the suffering that extorts the murmur. 
We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and 
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth 
from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous 3° 
delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes 
forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over his per- 
petual blindness. 



106 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, 
we might almost have suspected that these lowerings 
of gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the 
brightest scene of his story ; and to contrast with that 
5 refulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating ac- 
companiment of bird and song, and foliage and flower, 
and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in 
the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, 
which throws all the magic of romance about the old 
10 Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, 
according to custom, to escape from the dreary medi- 
tations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his cham- 
ber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, 
"fortired of thought and wobegone," he had wandered 
15 to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace 
of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is 
excluded. The window looked forth upon a small gar- 
den which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, 
sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, 
20 and protected from the passing gaze by trees and haw- 
thorn hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 

A garden faire, and in the corners set 
An arbour green with wandis long and small 
2 e Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
4 That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
30 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

1 Lyf Person. 
Note. — -The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



A ROYAL POET 107 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis 1 set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 5 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in 10 
bloom ; and he interprets the song of the nightingale 
into the language of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 

And sing with us, away, winter, away, 15 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene and listens to the notes of 
the birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender 
and undefinable reveries which fill the youthful bosom 
in this delicious season. He wonders what this love 20 
may be of which he has so often read, and which thus 
seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, 
and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it 
really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus 
generally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, 25 
why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 

Is it of him, as we in books do find : 30 

1 Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 



108 THE SKETCH BOOK 

l 

May he oure hertes setten 1 and unbynd : 
Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
Or is all this but feynit f antasye ? 

For giff he be of so grete excellence, 
5 That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt 2 to him, or done offense, 

That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye down- 
ward, he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young 

10 floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady 
Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that 
" fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon 
his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited sus- 
ceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the 

15 romantic prince, and becomes the object of his wander- 
ing wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resem- 
blance to the early part of Chaucer's Knighfs Tale; 
where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, 

20 whom they see walking in the garden of their prison. 
Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident 
which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James 
to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady 
Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of 

25 his master ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is 
a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells 
with the fondness of a lover on every article of her 
apparel, from the net of pearl splendent with emeralds 
and sapphires that confined her golden hair, even to 

30 the "goodly chaine of small orfeverye " 3 about her neck, 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that 

1 Setten, incline. 3 Wrought gold. 

2 Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



A ROYAL POET 109 

seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her 
white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up 
to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was 
accompanied by two female attendants, and about her 
sported a little hound decorated with bells ; probably 5 
the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which 
was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable 
dames of ancient times. James closes his description 
by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 10 

Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse, 1 estate, 2 and cunning 3 sure, 
In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 15 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an 
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs 
the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm 
over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into lone- 20 
liness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this 
passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the 
long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and 
when evening approaches, and Phcebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," 25 
he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon 
the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and 
sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of 
the twilight hour, he lapses, "half sleeping, half swoon," 
into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, 30 
and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history 
of his passion. 

1 Largesse, bounty. 2 Estate, dignity. 3 Cunning, discretion. 



110 THE SKETCH BOOK 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his 
stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary 
reflections, questions his spirit, whither it has been 
wandering ■ whether, indeed, all that has passed before 
5 his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding 
circumstances ; or whether it is a vision intended to 
comfort and assure him in his despondency. " If the 
latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm 
the promise of happier days given him in his slumbers. 
10 Suddenly a turtle dove of the purest whiteness comes 
flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, 
bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the 
leaves of which is written in letters of gold the follow- 
ing sentence : 

1 5 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread; 

20 reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first 
token of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a 
mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did ac- 
tually send him a token of her favor in this romantic 
way, remains to be determined according to the faith 

25 or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by 
intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and 
by the flower is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, 
and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of 
his heart. 

30 Such is the poetical account given by James of his 
love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is 
absolute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, 
it is fruitless to conjecture : let us not, however, reject 



A ROYAL POET 111 

every romantic incident as incompatible with real life ; 
but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have 
noticed merely those parts of the poem immediately 
connected with the tower, and have passed over a large 
part written in the allegorical vein so much cultivated 5 
at that day. The language, of course, is quaint and 
antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden 
phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day ; 
but it is impossible not to be charmed with the genu- 
ine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 10 
which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature 
too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most 
cultivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying in tnese days of 15 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and 
exquisite delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every 
gross thought or immodest expression, and presenting 
female loveliness clothed in all its chivalrous attributes 
of almost supernatural purity and grace. 20 

James nourished nearly about the time of Chaucer 
and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier 
of their writings. Indeed in one of his stanzas he 
acknowledges them as his masters ; and in some parts 
of his poem we find traces of similarity to their produc- 25 
tions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are 
always, however, general features of resemblance in the 
works of contemporary authors which are not so much 
borrowed from each other as from the times. Writers, 
like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incor- 30 
porate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and 
thoughts current in society ; and thus each generation 
has some features in common, characteristic of the age 
in which it lived. 



112 THE SKETCH BOOK 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of 
our literary history, and establishes the claims of his 
country to a participation in its primitive honors. 
Whilst a small cluster of English writers are con- 
5 stantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of 
their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in 
silence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in 
that little constellation of remote but never-failing lumi- 
naries who shine in the highest firmament of literature, 

io and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright 
dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scot- 
tish history (though the manner in which it has of late 
been woven with captivating fiction has made it a uni- 

15 versal study) may be curious to learn something of the 
subsequent history of James and the fortunes of his 
love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the 
solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it 
being imagined by the court that a connection with 

20 the blood royal of England would attach him to its 
own interests. He was ultimately restored to his lib- 
erty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him 
a most tender and devoted wife. 

25 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and 
irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- 
selves in their possessions, and place themselves above 
the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis 

30 of his power in the affections of his people. He attached 
the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the 
temperate and equable administration of justice, the en- 
couragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of 
everything that could diffuse comfort, competency, and 



A ROYAL POET 113 

innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of soci- 
ety. He mingled occasionally among the common people 
in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their 
cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed 
himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could 5 
best be patronized and improved ; and was thus an all- 
pervading spirit watching with a benevolent eye over 
the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous 
manner made himself strong in the hearts of the com- 
mon people, he turned himself to curb the power of the ic 
factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous im- 
munities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had 
been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole 
into proper obedience to the crown. For some time 
they bore this with outward submission, but with secret 15 
impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was 
at length formed against his life, at the head of which 
was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, 
being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed 
of blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, 20 
together with Sir Robert Graham and others of less 
note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bed- 
chamber at the Dominican Convent near Perth, where 
he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft- 
repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw 25 
her tender body between him and the sword, was twice 
wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from 
the assassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly 
torn from his person that the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 30 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- 
place in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with 
more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging 
up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure 



114 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and 
romantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced 
the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem; 
I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade 
5 myself it was the very one where he had been visited by 
his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had 
first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and 
joyous month ; the birds were again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody ; everything was burst- 

10 ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender prom- 
ise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the 
sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed 
lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to 
have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries 

15 have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot 
of the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of 
the Keep ; and though some parts have been separated 
by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and 
shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole 

20 is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm 
about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of 
departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of 
the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by 
the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to 

25 hallow every place in which it moves-; to breathe around 
nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the 
rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the 
blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as 

30 a warrior and legislator ; but I have delighted to view 
him merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the 
benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his high 
estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the 
paths of common life. He was the first to cultivate the 



A ROYAL POET 115 

vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has 
since become so prolific of the most wholesome and 
highly flavored fruit. He carried with him into the 
sterner regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of 
southern refinement. He did everything in his power 5 
to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle 
arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, 
and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and 
warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortu- 
nately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the 10 
world ; one, which is still preserved, called Christ's Kirk 
of the Green shows how diligently he had made himself 
acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes which 
constitute such a source of kind and social feeling 
among the Scottish peasantry; and with what simple 15 
and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. 
He contributed greatly to improve the national music ; 
and traces of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are 
said to exist in those witching airs still piped among the 
wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has 20 
thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious 
and endearing in the national character ; he has embalmed 
his memory in song, and floated his name to after ages 
in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The recollection 
of these things was kindling at my heart as I paced the 25 
silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vau- 
cluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit 
the shrine at Loretto; but I have never felt more poet- 
ical devotion than when contemplating the old Tower 
and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 3° 
romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of 
Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend who resided 
in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particu- 
5 larly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels 
of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to 
English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country 
filled with ancient families, and contained within its 
cold and silent aisles the congregated dust of many noble 

io generations. The interior walls were incrusted with mon- 
uments of every age and style. The light streamed 
through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly 
emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the 
church were tombs of knights and high-born dames, of 

15 gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored 
marble. On every side the eye was struck with some 
instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial 
which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in 
this temple of the most humble of all religions. 

20 The congregation was composed of the neighboring 
people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and 
cushioned, furnished with richly gilded prayer-books, and. 
decorated with their arms upon the pew doors ; of the 
villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats and a 

116 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 117 

small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the 
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed 
vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He 
was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neighbor- 5 
hood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the coun- 
try until age and good living had disabled him from 
doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw 
off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impos- 10 
sible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time 
and place : so, having like many other feeble Christians 
compromised with my conscience by laying the sin of 
my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I 
occupied myself by making observations on my neigh- 15 
bors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to 
notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as 
usual, that there was the least pretension where there was 
the most acknowledged title to respect. I was particu- 20 
larly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman 
of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. 
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than 
their appearance. They generally came to church in 
the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young 25 
ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner 
with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the 
stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances 
were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of 
high refinement, but at the same time a frank cheerful- 30 
ness and an engaging affability. Their brothers were 
tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashion- 
ably, but simply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but 
without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole 



118 THE SKETCH BOOK 

demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace 
and noble frankness which bespeak freeborn souls that 
have never been checked in their growth by feelings of 
inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real 
5 dignity that never dreads contact and communion with 
others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that 
is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. 
I was pleased to see the manner in which they would 
converse with the peasantry about those rural concerns 

10 and field-sports in which the gentlemen of this coun- 
try so much delight. In these conversations there was 
neither haughtiness on the one part nor servility on the 
other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of 
rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

15 In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citi- 
zen, who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having pur- 
chased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in 
the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the 
style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The 

20 family always came to church en prince. They were 
rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with 
arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be 
placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat richly 

25 laced, and a flaxen wig curling close round his rosy 
face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog 
beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, with 
huge bouquets and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with 

3° peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed 
their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes 
more proudly than common horses ; either because they 
had caught a little of the family feeling, or were reined 
up more tightly than ordinary, 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 119 

I could not but admire the style with which this splen- 
did pageant was brought up to the gate of the church- 
yard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning 
of an angle of the wall, — a great smacking of the whip, 
straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, 5 
and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the 
moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The 
horses were urged and checked until they were fretted 
into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd 10 
of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipi- 
tately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. 
On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with 
a suddenness that produced an immediate stop, and 
almost threw them on their haunches. 15 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for 
the descent on earth of this august family. The old 
citizen first emerged his round red face from out the 
door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man 20 
accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock 
Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must 
confess, but little pride in her composition. She was 
the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The 25 
world went well with her, and she liked the world. She 
had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine chil- 
dren, everything was fine about her ; it was nothing 
but driving about and visiting and feasting. Life was 
to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's 3° 
Day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air 
that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to 



120 THE SKETCH BOOK 

be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, 
though no one could deny the richness of their decora- 
tions, yet their appropriateness might be questioned 
amidst the simplicity of a country church. They de- 
5 scended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line 
of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil 
it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that 
passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until 
they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their 

10 countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and 
they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in a manner that showed they were 
but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 

15 who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eyeing every one askance that came near them 

20 as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they 
were without conversation, except the exchange of an 
occasional cant phrase. They even moved artificially ; 
for their bodies in compliance with the caprice of the 
day had been disciplined into the absence of all ease 

25 and freedom. Art had done everything to accomplish 
them as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the 
nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men 
formed for the common purposes of life, and had that 
air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the 

30 true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the 
unpretending great and the arrogant little. I have no 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 121 

respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true 
nobility of soul, but I have remarked in all countries 
where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own standing are 5 
least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing 
is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks 
to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 10 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a 
respect for sacred things and sacred places, inseparable 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were 
in perpetual nutter and whisper ; they betrayed a con- 15 
tinual consciousness of finery and a sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive 
to the service. He took the whole burden of family 
devotion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and utter- 20 
ing the responses with a loud voice that might be heard 
all over the church. It was evident that he was one of 
those thorough church and king men who connect the 
idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, 
somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 25 
" a very excellent sort of thing that ought to be coun- 
tenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed 
more by way of example to the lower orders, to show 
them that though so great and wealthy he was not 30 
above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alder- 
man swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking 
his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it "excellent 
food for the poor." 



122 THE SKETCH BOOK 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to 
witness the several exits of my groups. The young 
noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre- 
ferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with 

5 the country people as they went. The others departed 
as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equi- 
pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the 
glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at 

io a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; 
the wheels threw up a cloud of dust ; and the aspiring 
family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such mat- 
ters must have noticed the passive quiet of an English 
landscape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the 
regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the 
blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, 5 
the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural 
labor are suspended. The very farm dogs bark less 
frequently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. 
At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk 
into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh 10 
green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hal- 
lowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should 15 
be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over 
the face of nature has its moral influence ; every rest- 
less passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural 
religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For 
my part, there are feelings that visit me in a country 20 
church amid the beautiful serenity of nature which I 
experience nowhere else ; and if not a more religious, 
I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any- 
other day of the seven. 

123 



124 THE SKETCH BOOK 

During my recent residence in the country, I used 
frequently to attend at the old village church. Its 
shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark 
oaken panelling all reverend with the gloom of de- 

5 parted years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn 
meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neigh- 
borhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into 
the sanctuary ; and I felt myself continually thrown 
back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the 

io poor worms around me. The only being in the whole 
congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the hum- 
ble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years 
and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better 

15 than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride 
were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though 
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some 
trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she 
did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat 

20 alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have 
survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to 
have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When 
I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 
prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her 

25 palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her 
to read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I 
felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor 
woman arose to heaven far before the responses of 
the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of 

3° the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and 
this was so delightfully situated that it frequently at- 
tracted me. It stood on a knoll round which a small 
stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 125 

through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The 
church was surrounded by yew trees which seemed al- 
most coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up 
lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gener- 
ally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still 5 
sunny morning, watching two laborers who were dig- 
ging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote 
and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from 
the number of nameless graves around, it would appear 
that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the 10 
earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the 
only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating 
on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus 
down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies 15 
of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A 
coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other 
covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of af- 20 
fected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly 
tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of 
the deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen 
seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported 
by a humble friend who was endeavoring to comfort 25 
her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the 
train, and some children of the village were running 
hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, 
and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity on 
the grief of the mourner. 3° 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch arrayed in the surplice, 
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. 
The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The 



126 THE SKETCH BOOK 

deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was 
penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, 
but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved 
but a few steps from the church door ; his voice 

5 could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never 
did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touch- 
ing ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of 
words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on 

10 the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age 
of the deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." 
The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at 
the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as 
if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking 

15 of the body and a convulsive motion of her lips that 
she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the 
yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the 
earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so 

20 harshly on the feelings of grief and affection, direc- 
tions given in the cold tones of business, the striking 
of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of 
those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. 
The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from 

25 a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes and 
looked about with a faint wildness. As the men ap- 
proached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, 
she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. 
The poor woman who attended her took her by the 

30 arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to 
whisper something like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, 
now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could 
only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not 
to be comforted. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 127 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creak- 
ing of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when on 
some accidental obstruction there was a justling of the 
coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth — as 
if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the 5 
reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my 
throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were 
acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing 
idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered 10 
to another part of the churchyard, where I remained 
until the funeral train had dispersed- 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that 
was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and 15 
destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought 
I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to 
soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and 
dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the 
young ! Their growing minds soon close above the 20 
wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pres- 
sure — their green and ductile affections soon twine 
round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who 
have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows 
of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry 25 
day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — 
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourn- 
ing over an only son, the last solace of her years : 
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impo- 
tency of consolation. 30 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On 
my way homeward I met with the woman who had 
acted as comforter ; she was just returning from accom- 
panying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I 



128 THE SKETCH BOOK 

drew from her some particulars connected with the 
affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neat- 
5 est cottages, and by various rural occupations and the 
assistance of a small garden had supported themselves 
creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a 
blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up 
to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir ! " said 

10 the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet- 
tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful 
to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of 
a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, 
so cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for 

15 she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm 
than on her good man's ; and poor soul she might 
well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in 
the country round." 

Unfortunately the son was tempted during a year 

20 of scarcity and agricultural hardship to enter into the 
service of one of the small craft that plied on a neigh- 
boring river. He had not been long in this employ 
when he was entrapped by a press-gang and carried off 
to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, 

25 but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the 
loss of their main prop. The father, who was already 
infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into 
his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and 
feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came 

30 upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward 
her throughout the village, and a certain respect as 
being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied 
for the cottage in which she had passed so many 
happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 129 

she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants 
of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro- 
ductions of her little garden, which the neighbors would 
now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days 
before the time at which these circumstances were told 5 
me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced 
the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and 
seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was 
dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly 10 
pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and 
hardships. He saw her and hastened towards her, but 
his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on his knees 
before her and sobbed like a child. The poor woman 
gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — 15 
" Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? 
your poor boy, George ? " It was indeed the wreck of 
her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sick- 
ness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes 20 
of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such 
a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely 
blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he 
might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Na- 25 
ture, however, was exhausted in him ; and if anything 
had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desola- 
tion of his native cottage would have been sufficient. 
He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed 
mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never 30 
rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers 
had returned, crowded to see him, offering every com- 
fort and assistance that their humble means afforded. 



130 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He was too weak, however, to talk — he could only look 
his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant, 
and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other 
hand. 
5 There is something in sickness that breaks down the 
pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings 
it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has lan- 
guished even in advanced life in sickness and despond- 
ency, who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect 

10 and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought on the 
mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed 
his pillow and administered to his helplessness ? Oh, 
there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother 
to her son that transcends all other affections of the 

15 heart ! It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort 
to his convenience, she will surrender every pleasure to 
his enjoyment, she will glory in his fame and exult in 

20 his prosperity : and if misfortune overtake him he will 
be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace 
settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him 
in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast 
him off, she will be all the world to him. 

25 Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and 
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from 
his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he 

30 slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over 
him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this 
way he died. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 131 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- 
tion was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and admin- 
ister pecuniary assistance, and if possible comfort. I 
found however on inquiry, that the good feelings of the 
villagers had prompted them to do everything that the 5 
case admitted ; and as the poor know best how to console 
each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down 
the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 10 

She had made an effort to put on something like 
mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more touch- 
ing than this struggle between pious affection and utter 
poverty: a black ribbon or so, a faded black handker- 
chief, and one or two more such humble attempts to 15 
express by outward signs that grief which passes show. 
When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the 
stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp with which 
grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sor- 20 
row at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers 
and praises of a pious though a broken heart, I felt that 
this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They 25 
exerted themselves to render her situation more com- 
fortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, 
but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course 
of a Sunday or two after she was missed from her usual 
seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood I 30 
heard with a feeling of satisfaction that she had quietly 
breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she 
loved, in that world where sorrow is never known and 
friends are never parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 1 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English 
Sunday in the country, and its tranquillizing effect upon 
the landscape ; but where is its sacred influence more 
strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great 
5 Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic mon- 
ster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and 
struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. 
The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished ; 
and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of 

10 smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the 
quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of 
hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move lei- 
surely along; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles 
of business and care ; they have put on their Sunday 

15 looks and Sunday manners with their Sunday clothes, 
and are cleansed in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
from his mansion issues the family of the decent trades- 

20 man, the small children in the advance ; then the citizen 
and his comely spouse followed by the grown-up daugh- 
ters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the 
folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid 
looks after them from the window admiring the finery 

25 of the family, and receiving perhaps a nod and smile 
from her young mistresses at whose toilet she has 
assisted. 

1 Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 
132 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 133 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of 
the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff ; and 
now the patter of many feet announces a procession of 
charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each 
with a prayer-book under his arm. 5 

The ringing of bells is at an end, the rumbling of 
the carriage has ceased, the pattering of feet is heard 
no more ; the flocks are folded in ancient churches, 
cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded 
city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the 10 
shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. 
For a time everything is hushed ; but soon is heard 
the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and 
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts ; and the 
sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with 15 
melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible 
of the sanctifying effect of church music than when 
I have heard it thus poured forth like a river of joy 
through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, 
elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions 20 
of the week, and bearing the poor world-worn soul on 
a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are 
again alive with the congregations returning to their 
homes, but soon again relapse into silence. Now comes 25 
on the Sunday dinner, which to the city tradesman is 
a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for 
social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family 
can now gather together who are separated by the labo- 
rious occupations of the week. A schoolboy may be 30 
permitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; 
an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sun- 
day seat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, 
and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 



134 THE SKETCH BOOK 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions 
to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the 
parks and rural environs. Satirists may say what they 
please about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen 

5 on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in 
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty 
city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw 
himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a 
child restored to the mother's breast ; and they who first 

to spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure- 
grounds which surround this huge metropolis have 
done at least as much for its health and morality as 
if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, 
prisons, and penitentiaries. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH 

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I 
have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should 
say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 
' it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to 
honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before 
their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may 
be known by the number of these offerings. One per- 
haps is left to moulder in the darkness of his little 5 
chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its 
blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze 
of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified 
father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge 
luminary of wax; the eager zealot his seven-branched 10 
candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no 
means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the 
deceased unless he hangs up his little lamp of smok- 
ing oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to 
enlighten they are often apt to obscure; and I have 15 
occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out 
of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake- 
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to 
light up some portion of his character or works, and to 20 
rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, 
opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations ; 

i35 



136 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity 
from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and every 
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy 
or research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 
5 As I honor all established usages of my brethren of 
the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite 
of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was 
for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I 
should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated 

10 in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line 
had been explained a dozen different ways, and per- 
plexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine 
passages, they had all been amply praised by previous 
admirers ; nay, so completely had the bard of late been 

15 overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that 
it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 
argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 

20 Henry IV., and was in a moment completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 
and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and 
with such force and consistency are the characters sus- 
tained, that they become mingled up in the mind with 

25 the facts and personages of real life. To few readers 
does it occur that these are all ideal creations of a poet's 
brain, and that in sober truth no such knot of merry 
roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of East- 
cheap. 

30 For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as 
valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thou- 
sand years since ; and if I may be excused such an in- 
sensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 137 

not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient 
chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, 
or men like me ? They have conquered countries of 
which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained 
laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have 5 
furnished examples of hair-brained prowess which I have 
neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. 
But old Jack Falstaff ! — kind Jack Falstaff ! — sweet 
Jack Falstaff ! — has enlarged the boundaries of human 
enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and good 10 
humor in which the poorest man may revel ; and has 
bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laugh- 
ter to make mankind merrier and better to the latest 
posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me : "I will make a pil- 15 
grimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and 
see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who 
knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of 
Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate there will 
be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal 20 
with their mirth to that the toper enjoys in smelling to 
the empty cask once filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in exe- 
cution. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels : of the haunted 25 
regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of Little 
Britain and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in 
Cateaton Street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guild- 
hall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of 
the city and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how 3° 
I visited London Stone and struck my staff upon it, in 
imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail where 



138 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For Eastcheap, says old Stow, " was always famous for 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 
5 roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : there was 
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." 
Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring 
days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster 
has given place to the plodding tradesman; the clatter- 

10 ing of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie " to 
the din of carts and the accursed dinging of the dust- 
man's bell ; and no song is heard, save haply the strain 
of some siren from Billingsgate chanting the eulogy of 
deceased mackerel. 

15 I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame 
Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head carved in 
relief in stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at 
present is built into the parting line of two houses which 
stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. 

20 For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, 
I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow opposite, 
who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was 
looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neigh- 
borhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the 

25 window of which looked out upon a yard about eight 
feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass 
door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street 
through a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two 
views which comprised in all probability her prospects 

30 in life, and the little world in which she had lived and 
moved and had her being for the better part of a 
century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap great and 
little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 139 

doubtless in her opinion to be acquainted with the his- 
tory of the universe. Yet with all this she possessed 
the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communi- 
cative disposition which I have generally remarked in 
intelligent old ladies knowing in the concerns of their 5 
neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back 
into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the his- 
tory of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame 
Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the great fire 10 
of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It 
was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old 
name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with re- 
morse for double scores, bad measures, and other iniqui- 
ties which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, 15 
endeavored to make his peace with heaven by bequeath- 
ing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, 
towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time 
the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it was 
observed that the old Boar never held up his head under 20 
church government. He gradually declined, and finally 
gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern 
was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a 
picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, 
which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this 25 
picture was now my determination ; so, having informed 
myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the 
venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubt- 
less raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and 
furnished an important incident in the history of her 30 
life. 

It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry 
to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had 
to explore Crooked Lane, and diverse little alleys and 



140 THE SKETCH BOOK 

elbows and dark passages with which this old city is 
perforated, like an ancient cheese or a worm-eaten chest 
of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a 
small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhab- 
5 itants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as 
a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a 
bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in 
his eye, and if encouraged would now and then hazard 

10 a small pleasantry, such as a man of his low estate 
might venture to make in the company of high church- 
wardens and other mighty men of the earth. I found 
him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, 
like Milton's angels, discoursing no doubt on high doc- 

15 trinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over 
a friendly pot of ale, — for the lower classes of English 
seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the 
assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understand- 
ings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished 

20 their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to 
the church to put it in order ; so having made known 
my wishes, I received their gracious permission to 
accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing 

25 a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the 
tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every 
profession has its galaxy of glory and its constellation 
of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty 
fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much 

30 reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets 
feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside while thus speaking of illus- 
trious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 141 

contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, Wil- 
liam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the 
sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy 
of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on 
record famous for deeds of arms, — the sovereigns of 5 
Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific 
of all potentates. 1 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immedi- 
ately under the back window of what was once the Boar's 
Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom 10 
drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since 
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling 
career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of 

1 The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of 
this worthy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great confla- 
gration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 

William Walworth callyd by name ; 

Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 

And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 

Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 

Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 

For which act done, and trew entent, 

The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 

And gave him armes, as here you see, 

To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 

He left this lyff the yere of our God 

Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the 
venerable Stowe. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread 
abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully 
by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named 
Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this 
rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and 
good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, 
were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, 
Straw," etc., etc. 

Stowe's London. 



142 THE SKETCH BOOK 

his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 
his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a 
mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice that 
once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind 
^ was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors 
and windows and twirling weathercocks, so that the liv- 
ing were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of 
honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in 

10 the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of 
" Waiter ! " from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden 
appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the 
parish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirre gar- 
land of Captain Death " ; to the discomfiture of sundry 

15 train-band captains and the conversion of an infidel 
attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, 
and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, 
except in the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge my- 

20 self for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is 
well known that the churchyards and by-corners of this 
old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed 
spirits ; and every one must have heard of the Cock 
Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia 

25 in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sen- 
tinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to 
have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued 
Francis who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; 

30 to have been equally prompt with his " Anon, anon, sir ! " 
and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for 
Falstaff", the veracity of whose taste no man will venture 
to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his 
sack; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 143 

the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, 
and the fairness of his measure. 1 The worthy dignitaries 
of the church, however, did not appear much captivated 
by the sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy organist, 
who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd 5 
remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up 
among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated 
his opinion by a significant wink and a dubious shake 
of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 10 
on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting 
was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry 
and amen!" said I, " here endeth my research!" So 15 
I was giving the matter up with the air of a baffled 
antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me 
to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern, 
offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which 
had been handed down from remote times when the 20 
parish meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These 
were deposited in the parish club-room, which had been 

1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe 
it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the 
production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's 
Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 

Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 

Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 

The charms of wine, and every one beside. 

O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 

Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 

He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 

Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 

You that on Bacchus have the like dependence. 

Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



144 THE SKETCH BOOK 

transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, 
to a tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house which stands 
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's 
5 Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the 
"bully-rook" of the establishment. It is one of those 
little taverns which abound in the heart of a city, and 
form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neigh- 
borhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow 

io and darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of 
reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhab- 
itants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. 
The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing 
a table spread with a clean white cloth ready for dinner. 

15 This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, 
and divided their day equally, for it was but just one 
o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal 
fire before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row 
of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened 

20 along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked 
in one corner. There was something primitive in this 
medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back 
to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, 
was humble, but everything had that look of order and 

25 neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a not- 
able English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking 
beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were 
regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a 
visitor of rather high pretensions, I was ushered into a 

30 little misshapen back-room, having at least nine corners. 
It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated 
leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of 
a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular 
customers, and I found a shabby gentleman in a red 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 145 

nose and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner, meditating 
on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and 
with an air of profound importance imparted to her 
my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bus- 5 
tling little woman, and no bad substitute for that para- 
gon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted 
with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up-stairs to 
the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of 
the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 10 
courtesying, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron to- 
bacco-box of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the 
vestry had smoked at their stated meetings since time 
immemorial; and which was never suffered to be pro- 15 
faned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. 
I received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my 
delight at beholding on its cover the identical painting 
of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the out- 
side of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was 20 
to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full 
revel ; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force 
with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- 
modores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of 
posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, 25 
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of 
Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir 
Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the 30 
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was "repaired and beau- 
tified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such 
is a faithful description of this august and venerable 
relic ; and I question whether the learned Scriblerus 



146 THE SKETCH BOOK 

contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
Round Table the long-sought Sangreal, with more exul- 
tation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, 
5 Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the inter- 
est it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet 
which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended 
from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of 
having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and 

10 was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being 
considered very "antyke." This last opinion was 
strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose 
and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of 
being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. 

15 He suddenly roused from his meditation on the pot of 
porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, 
exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that 
made that there article ! " 

The great importance attached to this memento of 

20 ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puz- 
zled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension 
so much as antiquarian research ; for I immediately per- 
ceived that this could be no other than the identical 
" parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving 

25 but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, 
of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of 
her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract. 1 
Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 

1 Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my 
Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednes- 
day, in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy head for likening 
his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst swear to me 
then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my 
lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? — Henry IV., Part II 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 147 

goblet had been handed down from generation to gener- 
ation. - She also entertained me with many particulars 
concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- 
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters 
of Eastcheap, and like so many commentators, utter 5 
clouds of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I for- 
bear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious , 
in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neigh- 
bors one and all about Eastcheap believe that Falstaff 
and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. 10 
Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning 
him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the 
Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down 
from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair- 
dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's 15 
Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down 
in the books, with which he makes his customers ready 
to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medi- 20 
tation. His head had declined a little on one side ; a 
deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; 
and though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, 
yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of 
his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through 25 
the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 
on the savory breast of lamb roasting in dripping rich- 
ness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my 
recondite investigation I was keeping the poor man 30 
from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, 
and putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude 
and goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on 
him, Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of Crooked 



148 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Lane — not forgetting my shabby but sententious friend 
in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this 

interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and 

5 unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 

branch of literature so deservedly popular at the present 

t day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the 
immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 
touched upon to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising 

10 the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and 
Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers 
of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and 
little ; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her 
pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to 

15 say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb (and 
whom by the way I remarked to be a comely lass, with 
a neat foot and ankle), — the whole enlivened by the 
riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of 
London. 

20 All this I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future 
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco- 
box and the " parcel-gilt goblet " which I have thus 
brought to light the subjects of future engravings, and 
almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis- 

25 putes as the shield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland 
vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in 
which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and 
seek some quiet haunt where we may indulge our reveries 
and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood 
I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westmin- 5 
ster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought 
which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; 
when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from 
Westminster School, playing at football, broke in upon 
the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted 10 
passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merri- 
ment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by 
penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, 
and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the 
library. He conducted me through a portal rich with 15 
the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened 
upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and 
the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. 
Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To 
this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, and 20 

149 



150 THE SKETCH BOOK 

opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now 
ascended a dark narrow staircase, and passing through 
a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
5 ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a con- 
siderable height from the floor, and which apparently 
opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient 
picture of some reverend dignitary of the Church in his 

10 robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and 
in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved 
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polem- 
ical writers, and were much more worn by time than 
use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table 

15 with two or three books on it, an inkstand without 
ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place 
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. 
It was buried deep among the massive walls of the 
abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I 

20 could only hear now and then the shouts of the school- 
boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of 
a bell tolling for prayers echoing soberly along the roofs 
of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew 
fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell 

25 ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through 
the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated my- 
self at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead 

30 of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn 
monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place into a 
train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the 
shelves and apparently never disturbed in their repose, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 151 

I could not but consider the library a kind of liter- 
ary catacomb, where authors like mummies are piously 
entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty 
oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 5 
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some 
aching head ! how many weary days ! how many sleep- 
less nights ! How have their authors buried themselves 
in the solitude of cells and cloisters, shut themselves up 
from the face of man and the still more blessed face of 10 
nature, and devoted themselves to painful research and 
intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch 
of dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read 
now and then in a future age by some drowsy church- 
man or casual straggler like myself; and in another age 15 
to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount of 
this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a 
local sound ; like the tone of that bell which has just 
tolled among these towers, filling the earior a moment 
— lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away 20 
like a thing that was not. 

. While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these 
unprofitable speculations with my head resting on my 
hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the 
quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when, 25 
to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or 
three yawns like one awaking from a deep sleep, then 
a husky hem, and at length began to talk. At first 
its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much 
troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had 3° 
woven across it, and having probably contracted a 
cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of 
the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more 
distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent 



152 THE SKETCH BOOK 

conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was 
rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what 
in the present day would be deemed barbarous ; but 
I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in 
5 modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more 

10 than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume 
or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then 
returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they 
mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive 

15 was somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean by 
keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here 
and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beau- 
ties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by 
the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and to 

20 be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean 
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if 
he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at 
any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

25 "Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- 

30 els; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left 
to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned 
to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- 
ing big, " I was written for all the world, not for the 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 153 

book-worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate 
from hand to hand like other great contemporary 
works ; but here have I been clasped up for more than 
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to 
these worms that are playing the very vengeance with 5 
my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an 
opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to 
pieces." 

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to 
the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere 10 
this have been no more. To judge from your physiog- 
nomy, you are now well stricken in years : very few of 
your contemporaries can be at present in existence; and 
those few owe their longevity to being immured like your- 
self in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of 15 
likening to harems,. you might more properly and grate- 
fully have compared to those infirmaries attached to 
religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and 
decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employ- 
ment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for- 20 
nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as 
if in circulation — where do we meet with their works ? 
what do we hear of Robert Grosseteste, of Lincoln ? No 
one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. 
He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. 25 
He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate 
his name ; but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, 
and only a few fragments are scattered in various libra- 
ries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the anti- 
quarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the 30 
historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet? 
He declined two bishoprics that he might shut himself 
up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inquires 
after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who 



154 THE SKETCH BOOK 

besides a learned history of England wrote a treatise 
on the contempt of the world, which the world has 
revenged by forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph 
of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical com- 

5 position ? Of his three great heroic poems one is lost 
forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are 
known only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as 
to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely dis- 
appeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the 

10 Franciscan, who acquired the name of the " Tree of Life " ? 
Of William of Malmesbury ? — of Simeon of Durham ? — 
of Benedict of Peterborough ? — of John Hanvill of St. 
Albans ? — of — " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 

15 "how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in 
Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated 
themselves and deserved to be forgotten; 1 but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned 

20 Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and 
elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched 

25 in such intolerably antiquated terms that I have had 
infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phrase- 
ology.) 

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; 
but it matters little ; almost all the writers of your time 

1 In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great 
delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes 
there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which 
speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in 
hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's Testament of Love, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 155 

have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's 
publications are mere literary rarities among book-col- 
lectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on 
which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been 
the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even 5 
back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 
who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. 1 
Even now many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English 
undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well 
or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence 10 
of various tongues perpetually subject to changes and 
intermixtures. It is this which has made English liter- 
ature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built 
upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed 
to something more permanent and unchangeable than 15 
such a medium, even thought must share the fate of 
everything else, and fall into decay. This should serve 
as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most 
popular writer. He finds the language in which he has 
embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to 20 
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. 
He looks back and beholds the early authors of his 
country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by 
modern writers. A few short ages have covered them 
with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished 25 
by the quaint taste of the book-worm. And such, he 

1 Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " Afterwards, also, by 
deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time 
of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John 
Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excel- 
lent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of 
perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, 
Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent 
writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their 
great praise and immortal commendation." 



156 THE SKETCH BOOK 

anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, 
however it may be admired in its day and held up as 
a model of purity, will in the course of years grow anti- 
quated and obsolete, until it shall become almost as 
5 unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, 
or one of those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the 
deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some 
emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library filled 
with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and 

10 binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the 
good Xerxes when he surveyed his army pranked out 
in all the splendor of military array, and reflected that 
in one hundred years not one of them would be in 
existence ! " 

15 "Ah," said the little quarto with a heavy sigh, "I 
see how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded 
all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read 
nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's 
stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine- 

20 spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lily.'" 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to 
be so when you were last in circulation, have long since 
had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immor- 

25 tality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers, 1 
and which in truth is full of noble thoughts, delicate 
images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely 

1 Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, 
and the golden-pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto 
the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath 
of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and 
arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona 
in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Prac- 
tice in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey's 
Pierce's Supererogation. 






THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 157 

ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once the 
delight of a court and apparently perpetuated by a 
proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A 
whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the 5 
time have likewise gone down, with all their writings 
and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeed- 
ing literature has rolled over them, until they are buried 
so deep that it is only now and then that some indus- 
trious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a 10 
specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this muta- 
bility of language a wise precaution of Providence for 
the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in 
particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold 15 
the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing 
up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and 
then fading into dust to make way for their successors. 
Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would 
be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would 20 
groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its sur- 
face become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the 
works of genius and learning decline, and make way for 
subsequent productions. Language gradually varies, 
and with it fade away the writings of authors who have 25 
flourished their allotted time; otherwise, the creative 
powers of genius would overstock the world, and the 
mind would be completely bewildered in the endless 
mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints 
on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be tran- 30 
scribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious opera- 
tion ; they were written either on parchment, which was 
expensive, so that one work was often erased to make 
way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and 



158 THE SKETCH BOOK 

extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and 
unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the 
leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumula- 
tion of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined 
5 almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances 
it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not 
been inundated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the 
fountains of thought have not been broken up, and 
modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inven- 

ro tions of paper and the press have put an end to all 
these restraints. They have made every one a writer, 
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print and 
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The 
consequences are alarming. The stream of literature 

15 has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river 
— expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or 
six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; 
but what would you say to libraries such as actually 
exist containing three or four hundred thousand vol- 

20 umes, legions of authors at the same time busy, and 
the press going on with fearfully increasing activity 
to double and quadruple the number ? Unless some 
unforeseen mortality should break out among the 
progeny of the muse, now that she has become so 

25 prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctu- 
ation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may 
do much. It increases with the increase of literature, 
and resembles one of those salutary checks on popu- 
lation spoken of by economists. All possible encour- 

30 agement, therefore, should be given to the growth of 
critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; 
let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers 
will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked 
with good books. It will soon be the employment of a 






THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 159 

lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of 
passable information at the present day reads scarcely 
anything but reviews ; and before long a man of erudi- 
tion will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning 5 
most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, 
but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would 
ask the fate of an author who was making some noise 
just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was 
considered quite temporary. The learned shook their 10 
heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet 
that knew little of Latin and nothing of Greek, and 
had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. 
I think his name was Shakespeare. I presume he soon 
sunk into oblivion." 15 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very 
man that the literature of his period has experienced 
a duration beyond the ordinary term of English litera- 
ture. There rise authors now and then who seem 
proof against the mutability of language, because they 20 
have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles 
of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that 
we sometimes see on the banks of a stream ; which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the 
mere surface and laying hold on the very foundations 25 
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being 
swept away by the overflowing current, and hold up 
many a neighboring plant and perhaps worthless weed 
to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, 
whom we behold defying the encroachments of time, 30 
retaining in modern use the language and literature 
of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent 
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the 



160 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion 
of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creep- 
ers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." 
Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 
5 chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit 
of laughter that had well-nigh choked him by reason 
of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, 
as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and 
so you would persuade me that the literature of an age 

10 is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a 
man without learning; by a poet, forsooth — a poet!" 
And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rude- 
ness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his 

15 having nourished in a less polished age. I determined, 
nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I positively, "a poet; for of all 
writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others 
may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, 

20 and the heart will always understand him. He is the 
faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always 
the same and always interesting. Prose writers are 
voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded with 
commonplaces and their thoughts expanded into tedi- 

25 ousness. But with the true poet everything is terse, 
touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts 
in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every- 
thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is 

30 passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain 
the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age 
in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose 
within a small compass the wealth of the language — its 
family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 161 

form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be anti- 
quated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in 
the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic 
value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back 
over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys 5 
of dulness filled with monkish legends and academical 
controversies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! 
what dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here and there 
only do we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated 
like beacons on their widely separate heights, to transmit 10' 
the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age." * 
I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon 
the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the 
door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who 
came to inform me that it was time to close the library. 15 
I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but 
the worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps were 
closed ; and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that 
had passed. I have been to the library two or three 
times since, and have endeavored to draw it into fur- 20 
ther conversation, but in vain; and whether all this ram- 
bling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was 
another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, 
I have never to this moment been able to discover. 

1 Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



RURAL FUNERALS 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night ; 
Are strewings fitt'st for graves — 
You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of 
rural life which still linger in some parts of England, 
are those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and 
planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, 
5 it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the 
primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, 
having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, 
and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no 
doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, 

10 originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate 
sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They 
are now only to be met with in the most distant and 
retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and inno- 
vation have not been able to throng in, and trample out 

15 all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 
In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to 
in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 
20 Larded all with sweet flowers ; 

Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
With true love showers. 
162 






RURAL FUNERALS 163 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- 
served in some of the remote villages of the south, at the 
funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. 
A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by 
a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is 5 
afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed 
seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes 
made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside 
of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased and 10 
the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a 
kind of triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they 
have finished their course with joy, and are become con- 15 
querors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of 
the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, 
and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear 
of a still evening in some lonely country scene the 
mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a dis- 20 
tance, and to see the train slowly moving along the 
landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 

Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 

And as we sing thy dirge, we will 25 

The daffodill 

And other flowers lay upon 

The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to 
the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such 30 
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, 
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- 
proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then 



164 THE SKETCH BOOK 

follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the 
grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and 
having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, 
turns and resumes his journey. 
5 The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
English character and gives it some of its most touch- 
ing and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these 
pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the 
common people for an honored and a peaceful grave. 

10 The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot 
while living, is anxious that some little respect may be 
paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing 
the "faire and happy milkmaid," observes, "thus lives 
she, and all her care is, that she may die in the spring- 

1 5 time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding- 
sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling 
of a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude 
about the grave. In The Maid's Tragedy, by Beaumont 
and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 

20 describing the capricious melancholy of a broken- 
hearted girl: 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 

2 r To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 

Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep 
the turf uninjured, and about them were planted ever- 
30 greens and flowers. "We adorn their graves," says 
Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, 
just emblems of the life of man, which has been com- 
pared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose 
roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." 



RURAL FUNERALS 165 

This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; 
but it may still be met with in the churchyards of 
retired villages among the Welsh mountains ; and I 
recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, 
which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. 5 
I have been told also by a friend, who was present at 
the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that 
the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, 
which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck 
about the grave. 10 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated 
in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely 
stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon 
withered, and might be seen in various states of decay ; 
some drooping, others quite perished. They were after- 15 
wards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other 
evergreens, which on some graves had grown to great 
luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had some- 20 
thing in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes 
blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail 
mortality. "This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne 
on a branch set with thorns and accompanied with the 
lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, 25 
anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a 
show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and 
crosses." The nature and color of the flowers and of 
the ribbons with which they were tied had often a 
particular reference to the qualities or story of the 30 
deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the 
mourner. In an old poem, entitled Corydon's Doleful 
Knell, a lover specifies the decorations he intends to 
use: 



166 THE SKETCH BOOK 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-color'd flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

5 And sundry-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers, 
10 The rarest ever seen ; 

And with my tears as showers, 
I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave 
of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons 

15 in token of her spotless innocence, though sometimes 
black ribbons were intermingled to bespeak the grief of 
the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in 
remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benev- 
olence ; but roses in general were appropriated to the 

20 graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not 
altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the 
county of Surrey, "where the maidens yearly planted 
and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with 
rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his 

25 Britannia: "Here is also a certain custom, observed 
time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, 
especially by the young men and maids who have lost 
their loves ; so that this churchyard is now full of 
them." 

30 When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as 
the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they 
were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems 



RURAL FUNERALS 167 

by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the 

following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 5 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In The Maid's Tragedy a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the 10 
funerals of females who had been disappointed in 
love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 15 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 20 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine 
and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in 
the purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance 
of thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral 
observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that 25 
none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should 
be employed. The intention seems to have been to 
soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind 
from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mor- 
tality, and to associate the memory of the deceased 30 
with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. 
There is a dismal process going on in the grave ere 
dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagi- 



168 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nation shrinks from contemplating ; and we seek still to 
think of the form we have loved with those refined 
associations which it awakened when blooming before 
us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says 
5 Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Herrick, also, in his Dirge of fephtha, pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in 
10 a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the 
living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 



l S 



May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 
20 May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
25 British poets who wrote when these rites were more 
prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; 
but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I 
cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from 
Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite, which 
30 illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses 



RURAL FUNERALS 169 

that magic of language and appositeness of imagery 
for which he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 5 

The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 10 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature than in the 
most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the 
flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on 
the grave as affection is binding the osier round the 
sod; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the 15 
chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculp- 
tured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly 
elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, 
and exists only in the most remote and insignificant vil- 20 
lages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns 
the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people 
grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of 
poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, 
to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most 25 
affecting and picturesque usages by studied form and 
pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately 
and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made 
up of show and* gloomy parade ; mourning carriages, 
mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourn- 30 
ers who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave 
digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn mourn- 
ing and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the daies are finished, they shall be, and they shall be 
remembered no more." The associate in the gay and 
crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succes- 
sion of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him 
5 from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in 
which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funer- 
als in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke 
of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and 
is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. 

10 The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals 
with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and 
saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 

15 enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most 
retired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. 
His idea is associated with every charm of nature ; we 
hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to 
awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once 

20 frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland soli- 
tude or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the 
freshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming 
smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening 
returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, 

25 we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and 
sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed ; 
Belov'd, till life can charm no more ; 

3 o And mournM till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the 
deceased in the country is that the grave is more imme- 
diately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their 



RURAL FUNERALS 171 

way to prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are 
softened by the exercises of devotion ; they linger about 
it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from 
worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from 
present pleasures and present loves and to sit down 5 
among the solemn mementos of the past. In North 
Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of 
their deceased friends for several Sundays after the 
interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and 
planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewed 10 
on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the 
season brings the companion of former festivity more 
vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the 
nearest relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings 
are employed; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it 15 
would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, 
as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices 
of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It 
is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its 20 
superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal 
attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed 
and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the 
love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem- 
brance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and 25 
decline with the charms that excited them, and turn with 
shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the 
tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection 
rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns 
like a holy flame to illumine and sanctify the heart of 30 
the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek 
to heal — every other affliction to forget : but this wound 



172 THE SKETCH BOOK 

we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we 
cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother 
who would willingly forget the infant that perished like 
a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a 
5 pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget 
the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would 
forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even 
when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he 

10 most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed 
in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation 
that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the love 
which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; 

15 and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into 
the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish 
and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all 
that we most loved is softened away into pensive medi- 
tation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — 

20 who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over 
the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness 
over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even 
for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No, 

25 there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There 
is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even 
from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the 
grave ! — It buries every error — covers every defect — 
extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom 

30 spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. 
Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, 
and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever 
have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies 
mouldering before him ? 



RURAL FUNERALS 173 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for 
meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review 
the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- 
sand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in 
the daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we 5 
dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness 
of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its 
stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, 
watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring 
love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh! how thrill- 10 
ing ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering 
accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance 
of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, 
turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate ! 1 5 
There settle the account with thy conscience for every 
past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unre- 
garded of that departed being who can never — never 
— never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to 20 
the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affec- 
tionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever 
caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness 
in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy 
truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in 25 
thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously 
confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever 
given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now 
lies cold and still beneath thy feet, — then be sure that 
every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle 30 
action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and 
knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou 
wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, 
and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing 



174 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tear ; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and 
unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the 
beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken 
5 spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes 
of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy 
contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more 
faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to 
the living. 



10 In writing the preceding article, it was not intended 
to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quota- 
tions illustrative of particular rites, to be appended by 
way of note to another paper, which has been withheld. 

15 The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and 
this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual 
a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this 

20 custom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other 
countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much 
more general, and is observed even by the rich and 
fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity 
and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels 

25 in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and 
recesses formed for retirement with seats placed among 
bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves gener- 
ally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. 
He gives a casual picture of filial piety which I cannot 

30 but transcribe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delight- 
ful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When 
I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated 



RURAL FUNERALS 175 

Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp you 
might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the 
ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young 
woman who stood on a mound of earth newly covered 
with turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet 5 
of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; 
and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented 
a monument more striking than the most costly work 
of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration 10 
that I once met with among the mountains of Switzer- 
land. It was at the villa of Gersau, which stands on 
the borders of the Lake of Lucerne at the foot of Mount 
Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, 
shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible 15 
on the land side only by footpaths. The whole force of 
the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; 
and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were 
from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its terri- 
tory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the 20 
rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a 
purer age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground 
adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed 
crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed minia- 
tures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at like- 25 
nesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung 
chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if 
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this 
scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- 
tion, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings 30 
of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
and more populous place, I should have suspected them 
to have been suggested by factitious sentiment derived 
from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little 



176 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of books ; there was not a novel nor a love-poem in the 
village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place 
dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the 
grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the 
5 most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was 
practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 

Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through the 
Netherlands, I arrived one evening at the Pomme d'Or, 
the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was 
after the hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged 
to make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler 5 
board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in 
one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast 
being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull 
evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I 
summoned mine host, and requested something to read ; 10 
he brought me the whole literary stock of his household : 
a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, 
and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing 
over one of the latter, reading old and stale criticisms, 
my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter 15 
which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one 
that has travelled on the continent must know how 
favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the 
middle and inferior order of travellers ; particularly in 
that equivocal kind of weather when a fire becomes 20 
agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the newspaper 
and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at 
the group that appeared to be so merry. It was com- 
posed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours 
before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants 25 

177 



178 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great 
burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an 
altar at which they were worshipping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness, 

5 among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea- 
kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon 
the group, bringing out many odd features in strong 
relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious 
kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners, except 

io where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side 
of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well- 
scoured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscur- 
ity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants 
in her ears and a necklace with a golden heart suspended 

15 to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I 
found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which 
a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and 

20 large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the 
end of each of which there was one of those bursts of 
honest unceremonious laughter in which a man indulges 
in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 

25 blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and 
listened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extrav- 
agant and most very dull. All of them, however, have 
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I 
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its 

30 chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the 
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran trav- 
eller. He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling- 
jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of 



THE INN KITCHEN 179 

overalls with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He 
was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair 
was light, and curled from under an old green velvet 
travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He was 
interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests or 
the remarks of his auditors, and paused now and then 
to replenish his pipe, at which times he had generally a 
roguish leer and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. 
I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling 
in a huge armchair, one arm akimbo, the other holding 
a curiously twisted tobacco pipe formed of genuine ecume 
de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel, his 
head cocked on one side, and the whimsical cut of the 
eye occasionally, as he related the following story. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 

A TRAVELLER'S TALE 1 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, 
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies 
not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, 
there stood, many, many years since, the castle of the 

5 Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay 
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs ; 
above which, however, its old watchtower may still be 
seen, struggling, like the former possessor I have men- 
tioned, to carry a high head and look down upon the 

io neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen, 2 and inherited the relics of the prop- 
erty and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the 
warlike disposition of his predecessors had much im- 

15 paired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeav- 

1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will 
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old 
Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken 
place at Paris. 

2 I.e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very 
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given 
in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her 
fine arm. 

180 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 181 

ored to keep up some show of former state. The times 
were peaceable, and the German nobles in general had 
abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like 
eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more 
convenient residences in the valleys : still the baron 5 
remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cher- 
ishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old family 
feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his 
nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had hap- 
pened between their great-great-grandfathers. 10 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature 
when she grants but one child always compensates by 
making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of 
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins 
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty 15 
in all Germany; and who should know better than they ? 
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care 
under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who 
had spent some years of their early life at one of the 
little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches 20 
of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. 
Under their instructions she became a miracle of accom- 
plishments. By the time she was eighteen she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories 
of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expres- 25 
sion in their countenances that they looked like so 
many souls in purgatory. She could read without great 
difficulty, and had spelled her way through several 
church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of 
the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable pro- 30 
ficiency in writing ; could sign her own name without 
missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could 
read it without spectacles. She excelled in making little 
elegant good-for-nothing lady-like knickknacks of all 



182 THE SKETCH BOOK 

kinds, was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the 
day, played a number of airs on the harp and guitar, 
and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by 
heart. 
5 Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes 
in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be 
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of 
their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent 
and inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. 

io She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; never went 
beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, 
or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to 
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and 
as to the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them 

15 at such a distance and in such absolute distrust, that 
unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a 
glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, 
not if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully 

20 apparent. The young lady was a pattern of docility 
and correctness. While others were wasting their sweet- 
ness in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked 
and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming 
into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection 

25 of those immaculate spinsters, like a rosebud blushing 
forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though 
all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, 
yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to 

30 the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
be provided with children, his household was by no 
means a small one ; for Providence had enriched him 
with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 183 

possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble 
relatives ; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and 
took every possible occasion to come in swarms and 
enliven the castle. All family festivals were commemo- 
rated by these good people at the baron's expense ; and 5 
when they were filled with good cheer, they would 
declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful 
as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and 
it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being 10 
the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved 
to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose 
portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, 
and he found no listeners equal to those that fed at his 
expense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a 15 
firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which 
every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The 
faith of his guests exceeded even his own : they listened 
to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and 
never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for 20 
the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Land- 
short, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of 
his little territory, and happy above all things in the 
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was a 25 
great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the 
utmost importance : it was to receive the destined bride- 
groom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been 
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of 
Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the mar- 30 
riage of their children. The preliminaries had been con- 
ducted with proper punctilio. The young people were 
betrothed without seeing each other ; and the time was 
appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count 



184 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the 
purpose, and was actually on his way to the baron's to 
receive his bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, 
5 mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected 
to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him 
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended 

io her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advan- 
tage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; 
and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 
as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of 

15 expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost 
in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on 
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering 

20 around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great 

interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her 

a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to 

say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 

25 had in truth nothing exactly to do ; but he was natu- 
rally a fuming, bustling little man, and could not remain 
passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried 
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite 
anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their 

30 work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about 
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate 
as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 185 

kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein ; 
and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis- 
tinguished guest with Saus unci #raus in the true spirit 5 
of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make 
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that 
had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of 
the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of 
the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, 10 
and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant 
sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought 
he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating from 
the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A num- 
ber of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing 15 
along the road; but when they had nearly reached the 
foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a 
different direction. The last ray of sunshine departed 
— the bats began to flit by in the twilight — the road 
grew dimmer and dimmer to the view ; and nothing 20 
appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant 
lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 25 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pur- 
suing his route in that sober jog-trot way in which a 
man travels toward matrimony when his friends have 
taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his 
hands, and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a 3° 
dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered 
at Wurtzburg a youthful companion in arms with whom 
he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Hermann 
Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthi- 



1S6 THE SKETCH BOOK 

est hearts of German chivalry, who was now returning 
from the army. His father's castle was not far distant 
from the old fortress of Landshort, although an heredi- 
tary feud rendered the families hostile and strangers to 
5 each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, 
and the count gave the whole history of his intended 
nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but 

10 of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing 
descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; 
and that they might do it the more leisurely, set off 

15 from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having given 
directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of 
their military scenes and adventures ; but the count was 
apt to be a little tedious now and then about the reputed 

20 charms of his bride and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of 
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely 
and thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the 
forests of Germany have always been as much infested 

25 by robbers as its castles by spectres ; and at this time 
the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes 
of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It 
will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cava- 
liers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers in the 

30 midst of the forest. They defended themselves with 
bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the count's 
retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them 
the robbers fled, but not until the count had received 
a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 187 

back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned 
from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his 
skill in administering to both soul and body ; but half 
of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the unfor- 
tunate count were numbered. 5 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain 
the fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with 
his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he 
was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared 10 
earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily 
and courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said 
he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He repeated 
these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request at 
a moment so impressive admitted no hesitation. Star- 15 
kenf aust endeavored to soothe him to calmness, promised 
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in 
solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowl- 
edgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his 
bride — his engagements — his plighted word ; ordered 20 
his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; 
and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on 
the untimely fate of his comrade, and then pondered on 
the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was 25 
heavy and his head perplexed ; for he was to present 
himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to 
damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. 
Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his 
bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, 30 
so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a 
passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of 
eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made 
him fond of all singular adventure. 



188 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrange- 
ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the 
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried 
in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illus- 

5 trious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the count 
took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient 
for their guest, and still more for their dinner ; and to 

10 the worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself on 
the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, 
which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no 

15 longer be postponed. The meats were already over- 
done ; the cook in an agony ; and the whole household 
had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by 
famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. 

20 All were seated at table, and just on the point of com- 
mencing, when the sound of a horn from without the 
gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another 
long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its 
echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. 

25 The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger 
was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, 
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, 
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately 

30 melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His 
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed 
to consider it a want of proper respect for the important 
occasion, and the important family with which he was to 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 189 

be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the 
conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience 
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. 

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon 5 
you thus unseasonably — " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of com- 
pliments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided 
himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger 
attempted once or twice to stem the torrent of words, 10 
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow 
on. By the time the baron had come to a pause they 
had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was once 
more interrupted by the appearance of the female part 15 
of the family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing 
bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; 
it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, 
and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden 
aunts whispered something in her ear ; she made an 20 
effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, 
gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was 
cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but 
there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft 
dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance had not 25 
been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the 
fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and 
matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left 
no time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and 30 
deferred all particular conversation until the morning, 
and led the way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the 



190 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the tro- 
phies which they had gained "in the field and in the 
chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, and 
tattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan 
5 warfare; the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar 
grinned horribly among crossbows and battle-axes, and 
a huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the 
head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or 

10 the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but 
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He con- 
versed in a low tone that could not be overheard — for 
the language of love is never loud ; but where is the 
female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whis- 

15 per of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and 
gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful 
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went 
as she listened with deep attention. Now and then 
she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was 

20 turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his 
romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender 
happiness. It was evident that the young couple were 
completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply 
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they 

25 had fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that 
attend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron 
told his best and longest stories, and never had he told 

30 them so well or with such great effect. If there was any- 
thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; 
and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly 
in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great 
men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 191 

it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- 
lent Hochheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own 
table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many 
good things were said by poorer and keener wits that 
would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; 5 
many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears that almost 
convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron that absolutely made the maiden 
aunts hold up their fans. 10 

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained 
a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His coun- 
tenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening 
advanced ; and, strange as it may appear, even the 
baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more 15 
melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at 
times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the 
eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversa- 
tions with the bride became more and more earnest and 
mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the 20 
fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through 
her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of 
the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers 25 
and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs 
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the 
laugh grew less and less frequent ; there were dreary 
pauses in the conversation, which were at length suc- 
ceeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 30 
dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the 
baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics 
with the history of the goblin horseman that carried 
away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful story, which has since 



192 THE SKETCH BOOK 

been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed 
by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, 
5 and as the story drew to a close began gradually to rise 
from his seat, growing taller and taller, until in the 
baron's entranced eye he seemed almost to tower into 
a giant. The moment the tale was finished he heaved a 
deep sigh and took a solemn farewell of the company. 
10 They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly 
thunderstruck. 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? why, 
everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber 
was ready for him if he wished to retire." 
15 The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri- 
ously : " I must lay my head in a different chamber 
to-night ! " 

There was something in this reply and the tone in 
which it was uttered that made the baron's heart mis- 
20 give him ; but he rallied his forces and repeated his 
hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently but positively 

at every offer ; and waving his farewell to the company, 

stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were 

25 absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head and a 

tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the 
earth and snorting with impatience. When they had 
30 reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly 
lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed 
the baron in a hollow tone of voice which the vaulted 
roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 193 

you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indis- 
pensable engagement — " 

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one 
in your place ? " 

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in 5 
person — I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not 
until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride 
there." 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solem- 10 
nity, " my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! 
the worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been 
slain by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at mid- 
night I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me 
— I must keep my appointment ! " 15 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was 
lost in the whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost con- 
sternation and related what had passed. Two ladies 20 
fainted outright, others sickened at the idea of having 
banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some 
that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in Ger- 
man legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood- 
demons, and of other supernatural beings with which 25 
the good people of Germany have been so grievously 
harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor 
relations ventured to suggest that it might be some 
sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the 
very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with 30 
so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on 
him the indignation of the whole company, and espe- 
cially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better 
than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy 



194 THE SKETCH BOOK 

as speedily as possible and come into the faith of the 
true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, 

they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 

5 day, of regular missives confirming the intelligence of 

the young count's murder and his interment in Wurtz- 

burg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who 

10 had come to rejoice with him, could not think of aban- 
doning him in his distress. They wandered about the 
courts or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their 
heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of 
so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and 

15 ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping 
up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride 
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if 
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what 

20 must have been the living man ! She filled the house 
with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood 
she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one 
of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The 

25 aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories 
in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her 
longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of 
it. The chamber was remote and overlooked a small 
garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of 

30 the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an 

. aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just 
tolled midnight when a soft strain of music stole up 
from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed and 
stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 195 

among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head 
a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven 
and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud 
shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, 
who had been awakened by the music and had followed 5 
her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When 
she looked again the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with ter- 
ror. As to the young lady, there was something, even 10 
in the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. 
There was still the semblance of manly beauty ; and 
though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to 
satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the 
substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. 15 
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that cham- 
ber again ; the niece for once was refractory, and 
declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other 
in the castle ; the consequence was, that she had to 
sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise from her 20 
aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she 
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her 
on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which 
the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigils. 25 

How long the good old lady would have observed 
this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk 
of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the 
first to tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still quoted 
in the neighborhood as a memorable instance of female 30 
secrecy that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; 
when she was suddenly absolved from all further re- 
straint, by intelligence brought to the breakfast table 
one morning that the young lady was not to be found. 



196 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in 
— the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received can only be imagined by those who 
5 have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a 
great man cause among his friends. Even the poor 
relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable 
labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first 
been struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked 

10 out, " The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by 
the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the 
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have car- 
ried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated 

15 the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a 
horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and 
had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
charger bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
were struck with the direful probability ; for events of 

20 the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many 
well-authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 
baron ! What a heartrending dilemma for a fond 
father and a member of the great family of Katzen- 

25 ellenbogen ! His only daughter had either been rapt 
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood- 
demon for a son-in-law, and perchance a troop of goblin 
grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, 
and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered 

30 to take horse and scour every road and path and glen 
of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn 
on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about 
to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, 
when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 197 

A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on 
a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She 
galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and 
falling at the baron's feet embraced his knees. It was 
his lost daughter and her companion — the Spectre 5 
Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. He looked 
at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted 
the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was won- 
derfully improved in his appearance since his visit to 
the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set 10 
off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no 
longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance 
was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted 
in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for 15 
in truth as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Hermann Von Starken- 
faust. He related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver 
the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the 20 
baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his 
tale. How the sight of the bride had completely capti- 
vated him, and that to pass a few hours near her he 
had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he 
had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a 25 
decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had sug- 
gested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hos- 
tility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth 
— had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's 
window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in 30 
triumph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal author- 
ity and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he 



198 THE SKETCH BOOK 

loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he 
rejoiced to find her still alive ; and though her husband 
was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a 
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, 
5 that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict 
veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon him of 
his being a dead man ; but several old friends present 
who had served in the wars assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier 

10 was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served 
as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels 
at the castle were resumed. The poor relations over- 

15 whelmed this new member of the family with loving 
kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. 
The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that 
their system of strict seclusion and passive obedience 
should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to 

20 their negligence in not having the windows grated. 
One of them was particularly mortified at having her 
marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she 
had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the 
niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him sub- 

25 stantial flesh and blood — and so the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 

Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 

And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in 
the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning 
and evening almost mingle together and throw a gloom 
over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in 
rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was some- 5 
thing congenial to the season in the mournful magnifi- 
cence of the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold it 
seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity 
and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 10 
through a long, low, vaulted passage that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by 
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this 
dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with 
the figure of an old verger in his black gown moving 15 
along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre 

199 



200 THE SKE TCH BOOM 

from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to 
the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains pre- 
pares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The clois- 
ters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of 
5 former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps 
and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gath- 
ered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments and 
obscured the death's head and other funereal emblems. 
The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 

10 tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears 
marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet 
has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. 
The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into 

15 the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot 
of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the 
vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From 
between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue 
sky or a passing cloud and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles 

20 of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating 
this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes 
endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tomb- 
stones which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my 

25 eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, 
but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many genera- 
tions. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; 
the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone 
remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times : 

30 Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 
1 1 14, and Laurentius. Abbas, n 76. I remained some 
little while musing over these casual relics of antiquity 
thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, 
telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 201 

perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride 
which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to 
live in an inscription. A little longer and even these 
faint records will be obliterated, and the monument 
will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking 5 
down upon these gravestones I was roused by the sound 
of the abbey clock reverberating from buttress to but- 
tress and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost 
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding 
among the tombs and telling the lapse of the hour, which, 10 
like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 
I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the 
interior of the abbey. On entering here the magnitude 
of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted 
with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with 15 
wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, 
with arches springing from them to such an amazing 
height, and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into 
insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. 
The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce 20 
a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously 
and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed 
silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along 
the walls and chatters among the sepulchres, making us 
more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 25 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses 
down upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noise- 
less reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the 
congregated bones of the great men of past times who 
have filled history with their deeds and the earth with 30 
their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
human ambition to see how they are crowded together 
and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in 



202 THE SKETCH BOOK 

doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little por- 
tion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could 
not satisfy ; and how many shapes and forms and arti- 
fices are devised to catch the casual notice of the 
5 passenger, and save from forgetfulness for a few short 
years a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the 
world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies 
an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. 

io The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of 
literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. 
Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their 
memories, but the greater part have busts, medallions, 
and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the 

15 simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed 
that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that 
cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze 
on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. 

20 They linger about these as about the tombs of friends 
and companions ; for indeed there is something of com- 
panionship between the author and the reader. Other 
men are known to posterity only through the medium of 
history, which is continually growing faint and obscure ; 

25 but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived 
for them more than for himself ; he has sacrificed sur- 
rounding enjoyments and shut himself up from the 
delights of social life, that he might the more intimately 

30 commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been pur- 
chased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be 
grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 203 

not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole 
treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden 
veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards 
that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of 5 
the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, 
but which are now occupied by the tombs and monu- 
ments of the great. At every turn I met with some 
illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful 
house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these 10 
dusky chambers of death it catches glimpses of quaint 
effigies : some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; 
others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously 
pressed together ; warriors in armor, as if reposing after 
battle; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in 15 
robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing 
over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every 
form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were 
treading a mansion of that fabled city where every being 
had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 20 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the 
effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler 
was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in 
supplication upon the breast ; the face was almost cov- 
ered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of 25 
the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It 
was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military 
enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and ro- 
mance, and whose exploits form the connecting link 
between fact and fiction, between the history and the 30 
fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in 
the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are 
with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They 
comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are 



204 THE SKE TCH BOOK 

generally found ; and in considering them the imagina- 
tion is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the 
romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry 
which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre 
5 of Christ. They are the relics of time utterly gone by, 
of beings passed from recollection, of customs and man- 
ners with which ours have no affinity. They are like 
objects from some strange and distant land of which we 
have no certain knowledge, and about which all our con- 

10 ceptions are vague and visionary. There is something 
extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic 
tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the 
supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect 
infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanci- 

15 ful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical 
groups which abound on modern monuments. I have 
been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the 
old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in 
former times, of saying things simply, and yet say- 

20 ing them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and 
honorable lineage than one which affirms of a noble 
house that "all the brothers were brave and all the 
sisters virtuous." 

25 In the opposite transept to Poet's. Corner stands a 
monument which is among the most renowned achieve- 
ments of modern art, but which to me appears horrible 
rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 
by Roubiliac. The bottom of the monument is repre- 

50 sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted 
skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his 
fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. 
She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who 
strives with vain and frantic effort to avert the blow. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 205 

The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit ; we 
almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph burst- 
ing from the distended jaws of the spectre. But why 
should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those 5 
we love ? The grave should be surrounded by every- 
thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for 
the dead, or that might win the living to virtue. It is 
the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and 
meditation. 10 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of 
busy existence from without occasionally reaches the 
ear, — the rumbling of the passing equipage, the murmur 
of the multitude, or perhaps the light laugri of pleasure. 15 
The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around ; 
and it has a strange effect upon the feelings thus to hear 
the surges of active life hurrying along and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb 20 
and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually 
wearing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the 
abbey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued 
bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a 
distance the choristers in their white surplices crossing 25 
the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the 
entrance to Henry the Seventh's Chapel. A flight of 
steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy but 
magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and deli- 
cately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if 30 
proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals 
into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of 
architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured 



206 THE SKETCH BOOK 

detail. The very walls are wrought into universal orna- 
ment, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches 
crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone 
seems by the cunning labor of the chisel to have been 

5 robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if 
by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonder- 
ful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with 

10 the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On 
the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and 
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and 
above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of 

15 gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fret- 
work of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the 
whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 

20 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems 
of living and aspiring ambition close beside mementos 
which show the dust and oblivion in which all must 
sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind 

25 with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the 
silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and 
their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous 
banners that were once borne before them, my imagina- 

30 tion conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with 
the splendor of jewelled rank and military array; alive 
with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring 
multitude. All had passed away; the silence of death 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 207 

had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the 
casual chirping of birds which had found their way into 
the chapel and built their nests among its friezes and 
pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 5 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the 
world ; some tossing upon distant seas, some under arms 
in distant lands, some mingling in the busy intrigues 
of courts and cabinets, all seeking to deserve one more 
distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors, — the 10 
melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present 
a touching instance of the equality of the grave, which 
brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, 
and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. 15 
In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the 
other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of 
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. , The walls of Elizabeth's 20 
sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 
heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where 
Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through 
windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the 25 
place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and 
tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary 
is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron 
railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — 
the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down 30 
to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind 
the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the 
abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant 



208 THE SKETCH BOOK 

voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the 
faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, 
and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and 
obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a 
5 deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
10 Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst 
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled inten- 
sity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How 
well do their volume and grandeur accord with this 

15 mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through 
its vast vaults and breathe their awful harmony through 
these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre 
vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph and acclama- 
tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, 

20 and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and 
the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes 
of melody ; they soar aloft and warble along the roof, 
and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure 
airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 

25 thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and roll- 
ing it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cardences ! 
What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and 
more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and 
seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the 

30 senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in 
full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the 
very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this 
swelling tide of harmony ! 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 209 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire ; the shadows 
of evening were gradually thickening round me, the 
monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom, and 
the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning 5 
day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I de- 
scended the flight of steps which lead into the body of 
the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward 
the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that 10 
conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 
this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a 
kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres 
of various kings and queens. From this eminence the 
eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to 15 
the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs, 
where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie 
mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me 
stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of 
oak in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. 20 
The scene seemed almost as if contrived with theatrical 
artifice to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
was a type of the beginning and the end of human 
pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from 
the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that 25 
these incongruous mementos had been gathered together 
as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the 
moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dis- 
honor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown 
which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie 30 
down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be 
trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multi- 
tude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no 
longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some 



210 THE SKETCH BOOK 

natures which leads them to sport with awful and hal- 
lowed things ; and there are base minds which delight 
to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage 
and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. 
5 The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken 
open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal orna- 
ments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of 
the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears 

10 some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of 
mankind. Some are plundered, some mutilated, some 
covered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less out- 
raged and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 

15 through the painted windows in the high vaults above 
me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped 
in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew 
darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
shadows, the marble figures of the monuments assumed 

20 strange shapes in the uncertain light, the evening breeze 
crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave, 
and even the distant footfall of a verger traversing the 
Poets' Corner had something strange and dreary in its 
sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I 

25 passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door closing 
with a jarring noise behind me filled the whole building 
with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind 
of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they 

30 were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. 
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded 
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot 
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast 
assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 211 

a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
renown and the certainty of oblivion ! It is indeed the 
empire of death ; his great shadowy palace where he 
sits in state mocking at the relics of human glory, and 
spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of 5 
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality 
of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; 
we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to 
think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 10 
be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will in 
turn be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. " Our 
fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, "find their graves in 
our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be 15 
buried in our survivors." History fades into fable, 
fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy, the 
inscription moulders from the tablet, the statue falls 
from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids — what 
are they but heaps of sand ? and their epitaphs, but 20 
characters written in the dust ? What is the security 
of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The 
remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to 
the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere 
curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which 25 
Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; 
Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for bal- 
sams." * 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers 
above me from sharing the fate of mightier mauso- 30 
leums ? The time must come when its gilded vaults 
which now spring so loftily shall lie in rubbish beneath 
the feet ; when instead of the sound of melody and 
1 Sir T. Browne. 



212 

\ 

praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches 
and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the 
garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions 
of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; 
5 and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the nameless 
urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes 
away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; 
his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monu- 
ment becomes a ruin. 1 

L For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



*/ 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his 

good, gray old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing 1 cannot 

have more of him. TT „ „ 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday 
customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning 
of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, 5 
and believed it to be all that poets had painted it ; and 
they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of 
yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous 
than at present. I regret to say that they are daily 10 
growing more and more faint, being gradually worn 
away by time, but still more obliterated by modern 
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of 
Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various 
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of 15 
ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations 
of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing 
fondness about the rural game and holiday revel from 

213 



214 THE SKETCH BCQK \ 

which it has derived so many of itJ^nemes — as the 
ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and 
mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support by 
clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it 
5 were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends 
with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of 

io hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the 
Church about this season are extremely tender and inspir- 
ing. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of 
our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and 

15 pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect 
of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full 
choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 

20 anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the 
vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from 
days of yore, that this festival which commemorates 
the announcement of the religion of peace and love 

25 has been made the season for gathering together of 
family connections, and drawing closer again those 
bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures 
and sorrows of the world are continually operating to 
cast loose ; of calling back the children of a family 

30 who have launched forth in life and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal 
hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to 
grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 



CHRISTMAS 215 

There is something in the very season of the year 
that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At 
other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures 
from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally 
forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny land- 5 
scape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The 
song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breath- 
ing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of sum- 
mer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle 
of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious 10 
blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute 
but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere 
sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies 
despoiled of every charm and wrapped in her shroud of 
sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral 15 
sources. The dreariness and desolation of the land- 
scape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, 
while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our 
feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more 
keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. 20 
Our thoughts are more concentrated, our friendly sym- 
pathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm 
of each other's society, and are brought more closely 
together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. 
Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleasures 25 
from the deep wells of loving-kindness which lie in the 
quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted 
to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of 30 
the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial 
summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up 
each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does 
the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader 



216 TTTE SKETCH BOOK 

and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of 
love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fire- 
side ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes 
through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about 
5 the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can 
be more grateful than that feeling of sober and shel- 
tered security with which we look round upon the com- 
fortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 

io throughout every class of society, have always been 
fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably 
interrupt the stillness of country life ; and they were in 
former days particularly observant of the religious and 
social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even 

15 the dry details which some antiquaries have given of 
the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete 
abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship with which 
this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open 
every door and unlock every heart. It brought the 

20 peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in 
one warm, generous flow of joy and kindness. The old 
halls of castles and manor houses resounded with the 
harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards 
groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the 

25 poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green 
decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced 
its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to 
raise the latch and join the gossip knot huddled round 
the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary 

30 jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement 
is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday 
customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touch- 
ings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, 






CHRISTMAS 217 

and has worn down society into a more smooth and pol- 
ished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many 
of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely 
disappeared, and like the sherris sack of old Falstaff 
'are become matters of speculation and dispute among 5 
commentators. They nourished in times full of spirit 
and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heart- 
ily and vigorously ; times wild and picturesque, which 
have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and 
the drama with its most attractive variety of characters 10 
and manners. The world has become more worldly. 
There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. 
Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower 
stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet 
channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom 15 
of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- 
ened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its 
honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of 
golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities and 20 
lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial 
castles and stately manor houses in which they were 
celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, 
the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but 
are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing- 25 
rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive 
honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excite- 
ment in England. It is gratifying to see that home feel- 
ing completely aroused which holds so powerful a place 30 
in every English bosom. The preparations making on 
every side for the social board that is again to unite 
friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing 
and repassing, — those tokens of regard and quickeners 



218 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses 
and churches, emblems of peace and gladness : all these 
have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associ- 
ations and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the 
5 sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, 
breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the 
effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened 
by them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep 
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, 

10 and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occa- 
sion, have almost fancied them into another celestial 
choir announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination when wrought upon 
by these moral influences turns everything to melody 

15 and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard some- 
times in the profound repose of the country, " telling the 
night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by 
the common people to announce the approach of this 
sacred festival. 

20 Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 

Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 

25 No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 

So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is indeed 
30 the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kin- 
dling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but 
the genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 



CHRISTMAS 219 

beyond the sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit, as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the 
weary pilgrim of the desert. 5 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, — though 
for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship 
welcome me at the threshold, — yet I feel the influence 
of the season beaming into my soul from the happy 10 
looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflect- 
ive, like the light of heaven ; and every countenance 
bright with smiles and glowing with innocent enjoyment 
is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme 
and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churl- 15 
ishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow- 
beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his 
loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his 
moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, 
but he wants the genial and social sympathies which 20 
constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi 

Venit hora 

Absque mora" 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general 
observations on the Christmas festivities of England, 
and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of 
a Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing which 
5 I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside 
the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine 
holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly and anxious 
only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 

io for a long distance in one of the public coaches on 
the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded 
both inside and out with passengers who, by their talk, 
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations 
or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded 

15 also with hampers of game and baskets and boxes of 
delicacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears 
about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends 
for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked 
boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom 

20 health and manly spirit which I have observed in the 
children of this country. They were returning home 
for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves 



THE STAGE COACH 111 

a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the 
gigantic plans of the little rogues and the impracti- 
cable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' 
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, 
and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the 5 
meeting with the family and household, down to the 
very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give 
their little sisters by the presents with which their 
pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience 10 
was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and 
according to their talk possessed of more virtues than 
any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could 
trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he 
would take — there was not a hedge in the whole coun- 15 
try that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom whenever an opportunity presented 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could 20 
not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and 
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little 
on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens 
stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a 
personage full of mighty care and business, but he is 25 
particularly so during this season, having so many com- 
missions to execute in consequence of the great inter- 
change of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
unacceptable to my untravelled readers to have a sketch 
that may serve as a general representation of this very 30 
numerous and important class of functionaries, who * 
have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to 
themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so 
that wherever an English stage coachman may be seen, 



222 THE SKETCH BOOK 

he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or 
mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feed- 
5 ing into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly 
dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and 
his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of 
coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper 
one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, 

10 low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored handkerchief 
about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the 
bosom; and has in summer time a large bouquet of 
flowers in his buttonhole — the present, most probably, 
of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is com- 

15 monly of some bright color, striped, and his small 
clothes extend far below the knees to meet a pair of 
jockey boots which reach about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; 
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent mate- 

20 rials ; and notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his 
appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and 
propriety of person which is almost inherent in an 
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consid- 
eration along the road ; has frequent conferences with 

25 the village housewives, who look upon him as a man 
of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have 
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country 
lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to 
be changed, he throws down the reins with something 

30 of an air and abandons the cattle to the care of the 
hostler, his duty being merely to drive from one stage 
to another. When off the box his hands are thrust 
into the pockets of his greatcoat, and he rolls about 
the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. 






THE STAGE COACH 223 

Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng 
of hostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless 
hangers-on that infest inns and taverns and run errands 
and do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of batten- 
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of 5 
the taproom. These all look up to him as to an oracle, 
treasure up his cant phrases, echo his opinions about 
horses and other topics of jockey lore, and above all 
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every raga- 
muffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands 10 
in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an 
embryo " coachey." 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheer- 
fulness in every countenance throughout the journey. 15 
A stage coach, however, carries animation always with it, 
and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The 
horn sounded at the entrance of a village produces a 
general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some 
with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the 20 
hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group 
that accompanies them. In the mean time the coach- 
man has a world of small commissions to execute. Some- 
times he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a 
small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; 25 
and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly 
import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing house- 
maid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic ad- 
mirer. As the coach rattles through the village every 
one runs to the window, and you have glances on every 30 
side of fresh country faces and blooming, giggling girls. 
At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers 
and wise men, who take their stations there for the 
important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the 



224 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom 
the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much 
speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his 
lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the Cyclops round 
5 the anvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer the 
iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in brown 
paper cap laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle 
for a moment and permits the asthmatic engine to heave 
a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky 

io smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a 
more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed 
to me as if everybody was in good looks and good 
spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table 

15 were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', 
butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with cus- 
tomers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, put- 
ting their dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of 
holly with their bright-red berries began to appear at 

20 the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's 
account of Christmas preparations : " Now capons and 
hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
mutton, must all die, for in twelve days a multitude 
of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and 

25 spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by 
the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again if she forgets a pack of cards on 

30 Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and 
ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice 
and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not 
lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by 



THE STAGE COACH 225 

a shout from my little travelling companions. They 
had been looking out of the coach windows for the last 
few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they 
approached home, and now there was a general burst 
of joy — "There's John! and there's old Carlo! and 
there's Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clap- 
ping their hands. 

At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking 
servant in livery waiting for them ; he was accompanied 
by a superannuated pointer and by the redoubtable Ban- 
tam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and 
long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, 
little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman and hugged 
the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest ; all wanted to 
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others hold- 
ing John's hands ; both talking at once, and overpower- 
ing him with questions about home and with school 
anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which 
I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predomi- 
nated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like 
them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday 
was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few 
moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resum- 
ing our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of 
a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms 
of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw 
my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, 



226 THE SKETCH BOOK 

trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the 
coach window in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, 
but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
5 mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great 
gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a 
rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I 
entered, and admired for the hundredth time that picture 
of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment — 

io the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious 
dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels 
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a 
Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon 
were suspended from the ceiling ; a smokejack made its 

15 ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked 
in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along 
one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and 
other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming 
tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers 

20 of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout 
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their 
ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. 
Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards 
under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady, but 

25 still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flip- 
pant word and have a rallying laugh with the group 
round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor 
Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter: 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
30 To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 

A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require. 1 

1 Toor Robin 's Almanac, 1684. 



THE STAGE COACH 227 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, 
and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a 
countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward 
to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was 5 
not mistaken ; it was Frank Eracebridge, a sprightly, 
good-humored young fellow with whom I had once 
travelled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely 
cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller 
always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant 10 
scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To dis- 
cuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was 
impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, 
and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted 
that I should give him a day or two at his father's coun- 15 
try seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and 
which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than 
eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, 
tf and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in some- 
thing of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was 20 
cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen 
for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made 
me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed 
therefore at once with his invitation ; the chaise drove 
up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way 25 
to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely 
cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; 
the postboy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part 
of the time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows 
5 where he is going," said my companion, laughing, "and 
is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and 
good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must 
know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides 
himself upon keeping up something of old English hos- 

io pitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will 
rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English 
country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so 
much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so 
much into the country, that the strong, rich peculiari- 

15 ties of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My 
father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham 1 
for his text-book instead of Chesterfield ; he determined 
in his own mind that there was no condition more truly 
honorable and enviable than that of a country gentle- 

20 man on his paternal lands, and therefore passes the 
whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous 

1 Peacham 's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
228 



CHRISTMAS EVE 229 

advocate for the revival of the old rural games and 
holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. 
Indeed his favorite range of reading is among the authors 
who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he in- 5 
sists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than 
any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that 
he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when Eng- 
land was itself and had its peculiar manners and cus- 
toms. As he lives at some distance from the main road, 10 
in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival 
gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all bless- 
ings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the 
bent of his own humor without molestation. Being rep- 
resentative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, 15 
and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he 
is much looked up to, and in general is known simply 
by the appellation of ' The Squire,' a title which has been 
accorded to the head of the family since time imme- 
morial. I think it best to give you these hints about 20 
my worthy old father, to prepare you for any eccen- 
tricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in 
a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully 25 
wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge 
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted 
by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's 
lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried 
in shrubbery. 30 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which re- 
sounded through the still frosty air, and was answered 
by the distant barking of dogs with which the mansion 
house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately 



230 THE SKETCH BOOK 

appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly 
upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame 
dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat 
kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from 
5 under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying 
forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they 
could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a 

10 song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road 
wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the 

15 naked branches of which the moon glittered as she 
rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The 
lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, 
which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught 
a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin 

20 transparent vapor stealing up from the low grounds and 
threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport: 
"How often," said he, "have I scampered up this 
avenue on returning home on school vacations! How 

25 often have I played under these trees when a boy ! I 
feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up 
to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father 
was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays and hav- 
ing us around him on family festivals. He used to direct 

30 and superintend our games with the strictness that some 
parents do the studies of their children. He was very 
particular that we should play the old English games 
according to their original form ; and consulted old 
books for precedent and authority for every 'merrie 



CHRISTMAS EVE 231 

disport ' ; yet I assure you there never was pedantry 
so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentle- 
man to make his children feel that home was the happiest 
place in the world ; and I value this delicious home feel- 
ing as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 5 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of 
dogs of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp, and 
hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the 
ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, 
came bounding open-mouthed across the lawn. 10 

" — — - The little dogs and all, 
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice 
the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 
moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by 15 
the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building of 
some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of 20 
different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, 
with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and 
overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the 
small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the 
moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 25 
taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ances- 
tors who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. 
The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubber- 30 
ies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, orna- 
mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of 
water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely 



232 THE SKETCH BOOK 

careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original 
state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an 
air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature 
5 in modern gardening had sprung up with modern repub- 
lican notions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- 
ment ; it smacked of the levelling system — I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into garden- 
ing, though I expressed some apprehension that I should 

io find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only 
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle 
with politics ; and he believed that he had got this 
notion from a member of Parliament who once passed a 

15 few weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argu- 
ment to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, 
which had been occasionally attacked by modern land- 
scape gardeners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of 

20 music, and now and then a burst of laughter from one 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must pro- 
ceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of rev- 
elry was permitted and even encouraged by the squire 
throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every- 

25 thing was done conformably to ancient usage. Here 
were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the 
wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, 
and snap dragon ; the Yule clog and Christmas candle 
were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe with its white 

30 berries hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty 
housemaids. 1 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 

1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at 
Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the 



CHRISTMAS EVE 233 

had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire 
came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other 
sons — one a young officer in the army, home on leave 
of absence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the uni- 5 
versity. The squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gen- 
tleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open 
florid countenance, in which the physiognomist, with the 
advantage like myself of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 10 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit 
us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at 
once to the company, which was assembled in a large old- 
fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches 15 
of a numerous family connection, where there were the 
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming coun- 
try cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed board- 
ing-school hoydens. They were variously occupied: some 20 
at a round game of cards, others conversing around the 
fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young 
folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and 
budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a pro- 
fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls 25 
about the floor showed traces of a troop of little fairy 
beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had 
been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 30 
the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had cer- 
tainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently 

girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When 
the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK 

endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. 
Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a pic- 
ture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, 
and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and 

5 lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were 
inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on 
which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the 
corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing- 
rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture 

10 was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 

though some articles of modern convenience had been 

added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that 

the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide over- 

15 whelming fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in 
the midst of which was an enormous log glowing and blaz- 
ing, and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat : 
this I understood was the Yule clog, which the squire 
was particular in having brought in and illumined on a 

20 Christmas eve according to ancient custom. 1 

1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony on Christmas eve, laid in 
the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While 
it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. 
Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the 
cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood 
fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night ; if it went out, it was 
considered a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in 



CHRISTMAS E VE 235 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow chair by the hospitable fireside of 
his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a 
system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. 
Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 5 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly 
up in his master's 'face, wag his tail against the floor, 
and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness 
and protection. There is an emanation from the heart 
in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 10 
is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at 
his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the 
comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier before I 
found myself as much at home as if I had been one of 
the family. 15 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It 
was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels 
of which shone with wax, and around which were several 
family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides 
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers called 20 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed 
on a highly polished beaufet among the family plate. 
The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; 
but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made 
of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a 25 
standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the 
retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly 
orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my pre- 

England, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions 
connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come 
to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is con- 
sidered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog is 
carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



236 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dilection, I greeted him with all the warmth where- 
with we usually greet an old and very genteel acquain- 
tance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by 
5 the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Brace- 
bridge always addressed with the quaint appellation of 
Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man, with 
the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 
like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the 

ro small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it like a frost- 
bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quick- 
ness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery 
of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes 

15 and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite mer- 
riment by harping upon old themes, which, unfortu- 
nately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not 
permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight 
during supper to keep a young girl next him in a con- 

20 tinual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe 
of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. 
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the com- 
pany, who laughed at everything he said or did, and at 
every turn of his countenance ; I could not wonder at 

25 it, for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments 
in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make 
an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt 
cork and pocket handkerchief ; and cut an orange into 
such a ludicrous caricature that the young folks were 

30 ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- 
bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent 
income, which by careful management was sufficient for 
all his wants. He revolved through the family system 



CHRISTMAS EVE 111 

like a vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting 
one branch, and sometimes another quite remote ; as 
is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connec- 
tions and small fortunes in England. He had a chirp- 
ing buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present 5 
moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company 
prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating 
habits with which old bachelors are so uncharitably 
charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being 
versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of 10 
the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all 
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among 
whom he was habitually considered rather a young 
fellow; and he was master of the revels among the 15 
children : so that there was not a more popular being 
in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Brace- 
bridge. Of late years he had resided almost entirely 
with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with 20 
his humor in respect to old times, and by having a 
scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had 
presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for 
no sooner was supper removed and spiced wines and 
other beverages peculiar to the season introduced than 25 
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas 
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, 
with a sparkle of the eye and a voice that was by no 
means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a fal- 
setto like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 30 
quaint old ditty : 

Now Christmas is come, 
Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 



238 THE SKETCH BOOK 

And when they appear, 
Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an 
5 old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where 
he had been strumming all the evening, and to all ap- 
pearance comforting himself with some of the squire's 
home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, 
of the establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident 

io of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being 
fond of the sound of "harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 
one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire 

15 himself figured down several couple with a partner with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be 
a kind of connecting link between the old times and the 
new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of 

20 his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his 
dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel 
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- 
ing girl from boarding-school, who by her wild vivacity 

25 kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his 
sober attempts at elegance, — such are the ill-assorted 
matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one 

30 of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- 
sand little knaveries with impunity; he was full of prac- 
tical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and 
cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni- 
versal favorite among the women. The most interesting 



CHRISTMAS EVE 239 

couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of 
the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the course 
of the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness 
growing up between them ; and indeed the young sol- 5 
dier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He 
was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young 
British officers of late years, had picked up various 
small accomplishments on the continent — he could talk 
French and Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tol- 10 
erably — dance divinely; but above all he had been 
wounded at Waterloo. What girl of seventeen, well read 
in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of 
chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a 15 
guitar, and lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an 
attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, 
began the little French air of the Troubadour. The 
squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on 
Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the 20 
young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment as if 
in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and 
with a charming air of gallantry gave Herrick's Night- 
Piece to Julia : 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 25 

The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 30 

Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 



240 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
5 Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
10 My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner 
was called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of 
any such application, for she never looked at the singer, 

15 but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was 
suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was 
a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubt- 
less caused by the exercise of the dance; indeed, so 
great was her indifference, that she amused herself with 

20 plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, 
and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay 
lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed 

25 through the hall on my way to my chamber, the dying 
embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, 
and had it not been the season when " no spirit dares 
stir abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal 
from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies 

30 might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated 
in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with 



CHRISTMAS EVE 241 

cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of 
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the 
walls. The bed was of rich though faded damask, with 
a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow win- 5 
dow. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of 
music seemed to break forth in the air just below the 
window. I listened, and found it proceeded from a band 
which I concluded to be the waits from some neighbor- 
ing village. They went round the house, playing under 10 
the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them 
more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper 
part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated 
apartment. The sounds as they receded became more 
soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet 15 
and moonlight. I listened and listened ; they became 
more and more tender and remote, and as they gradu- 
ally died away my head sunk upon the pillow and I fell 
asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all 
the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, 
and nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber 
convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on 
5 my pillow, I heard the sound of 'little feet pattering out- 
side of the door and a whispering consultation. Pres- 
ently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old 
Christmas carol, the burden of which was : 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
IO On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door 
suddenly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little 
fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted 
of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, 
15 and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of 
the house, and singing at every chamber door; but my 
sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashful- 
ness. They remained for a moment playing on their 
242 



CHRISTMAS DAY 243 

lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy 
glance from under their eyebrows, until as if by one 
impulse they scampered away, and as they turned an 
angle of the gallery I heard them laughing in triumph 
at their escape. 5 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feel- 
ings in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. 
The window of my chamber looked out upon what in 
summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There 
was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot 10 
of it, and a track of park beyond with noble clumps of 
trees and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat ham- 
let with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging 
over it, and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded 15 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer, but 
the morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of 
the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, 
and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with 20 
its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. 
A robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash that 
hung its clusters of red berries just before my window 
was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 25 
querulous notes; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and 
gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared 
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way 3° 
to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I 
found the principal part of the family already assembled 
in a kind of gallery furnished with cushions, hassocks, 
and large prayer-books; the servants were seated on 



244 THE SKETCH BOOK 

benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from 
a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted 
as clerk and made the responses ; and I must do him 
the justice to say that he acquitted himself with great 
5 gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem 
of his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted 
to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there 

io were several good voices among the household, the effect 
was extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified 
by the exaltation of heart and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza, 
his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the 

15 bounds of time and tune : 

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink : 
20 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one. 

I afterwards understood that early morning service 
25 was read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout 
the year either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member 
of the family. It was once almost universally the case 
at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and 
it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into 
30 neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the 
order and serenity prevalent in those households where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship 
in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to every 
temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 245 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some 
bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and 
toast, which he censured as among the causes of mod- 
ern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old 5 
English heartiness; and though he admitted them to 
his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there 
was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 10 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted 
by a number of gentlemanlike dogs that seemed loungers 
about the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race 15 
that had been in the family time out of mind. They 
were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master 
Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols 
would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he 
carried in his hand. 20 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in 
the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could 
not but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal 
terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew 
trees carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 25 
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed a flock of them that were basking under 
a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that according to 3° 
the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I 
must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," 
added he with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight 
of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of 



246 THE SKETCH BOOK 

wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert we ought to ascribe to this bird " both under- 
standing and glory ; for being praised he will presently 
5 set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you 
may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the 
fall of the leaf when his tail falleth, he will mourn and 
hide himself in corners till his tail come again as it 
was." 

io I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 
tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea- 
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall, for 
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great 
favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to 

15 keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to chiv- 
alry, and were in great request at the stately banquets 
of the olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp 
and magnificence about them highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, 

20 had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 
perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 

25 something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of 
animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had 
been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from 
authors who certainly were not in the range of every- 
day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to 

30 Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that 
Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined 
to some half a dozen old authors which the squire had 
put into his hands, and which he read over and over 
whenever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had 



CHRISTMAS DAY 247 

on a rainy day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry, Markham's Country Con- 
tentments, the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 
Knight, Izaak Walton's Angler, and two or three more 
such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard 5 
authorities ; and like all men who know but a few books, 
he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted 
them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were 
chiefly picked out of old books in the squire's library, 
and adapted to tunes that were popular among the 10 
choice spirits of the last century. His practical appli- 
cation of scraps of literature, however, had caused him 
to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by 
all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the 
neighborhood. 15 

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of 
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a 
little particular in having his household at church on a 
Christmas morning, considering it a day of pouring out 
of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed : 20 

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my 
cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church 25 
is destitute of an organ, he has formed a i>and from the 
village amateurs and established a musical club for their 
improvement. He has also sorted a choir, as he sorted 
my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions 
of Gervase Markham, in his Country Contentments. For 30 
the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' among the 
country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK 

with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neigh- 
borhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most dif- 
ficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being 
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
5 accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine 
and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, 
which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood 
near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. 

io Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed 
coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly 
matted with a yew tree that had been trained against 
its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures 
had been formed to admit light into the small antique 

15 lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of 
a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The par- 

20 son was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a griz- 
zled wig that was too wide and stood off from each ear; 
so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, 
like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, 
with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 

25 church Bible and prayer-book; and his small legs seemed 
still smaller from being planted in large shoes, decorated 
with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had 

30 received this living shortly after the latter had come 
to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, 
and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman 
character. The editions of Caxton and Wynkyn de 
Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 



CHRISTMAS DAY 249 

his researches after such old English writers as have 
fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In def- 
erence perhaps to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he 
had made diligent investigations into the festive rites 
and holiday customs of former times ; and had been as 
zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon com- 
panion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with 
which men of adust temperament follow up any track 
of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; 
indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illus- 10 
tration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity 
of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes so 
intensely that they seemed to have been reflected in his 
countenance; which, if the face be indeed an index of 
the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black- 1 5 
letter. 

On reaching the church porch we found the parson 
rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistle- 
toe among the greens with which the church was deco- 
rated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by 20 
having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremo- 
nies ; and though it might be innocently employed in 
the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it 
had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as 
unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So 25 
tenacious was he on this point that the poor sexton 
was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble 
trophies of his taste before the parson would consent to 
enter upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; 30 
on the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- 
bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship on which lay the effigy of a warrior in 
armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been 



250 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who 
had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same 
whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew and 

5 repeated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind 
of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- 
man of the old school and a man of old family connec- 
tions. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of 
a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly 

io to show off an enormous seal ring which enriched one of 
his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. 
But he was evidently most solicitous about the mu- 
sical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently 
on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation 

15 and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the 
village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead 

20 and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to 
have blown his face to a point ; and there was another, 
a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, 
so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three 

25 pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy 
tint ; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been 
chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than 
looks ; and as several had to sing from the same book, 

30 there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country 
tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed toler- 
ably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind 



CHRISTMAS DAY 251 

the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and 
then making up for lost time by travelling over a pas- 
sage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars 
than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But 
the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared 5 
and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had 
founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blun- 
der at the very outset ; the musicians became flurried ; 
Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely 
and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning, 10 
"Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be 
a signal for parting company. All became discord and 
confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end 
as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one 
old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and 15 
pinching a long sonorous nose, who happened to stand 
a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody 
kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling 
his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least 
three bars' duration. 20 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the 
rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of 
observing it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but 
of rejoicing ; supporting the correctness of his opinions 
by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them 25 
by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, 
St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of 
saints and fathers from whom he made copious quota- 
tions. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity 
of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point 30 
which no one present seemed inclined to dispute; but 
I soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal 
adversaries to contend with ; having in the course of his 
researches on the subject of Christmas got completely 



252 THE SKETCH BOOK 

embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolu- 
tion, when the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon 
the ceremonies of the church, and poor old Christmas 
was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parlia- 
5 ment. 1 The worthy parson lived but with times past, 
and knew but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were 
to him as the gazettes of the day; while the era of the 

10 Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot that 
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecu- 
tion of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum 
porridge was denounced as "mere popery," and roast- 
beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been 

15 brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of 
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into 
warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a 
stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other 

20 forgotten champions of the Roundheads, on the subject 
of Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging his 
hearers in the most solemn and affecting manner to 

1 From the Elying Eagle, a small gazette, published December 
24, 1652: "The House spent much time this day about the busi- 
ness of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, 
were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, 
grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16 ; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; 
and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John 
xx. 1; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, n ; Mark xv. 8; 
Psalm lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Antichrist's masse, 
and those Massemongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In con- 
sequence of which Parliament spent some time in consultation about 
the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and 
resolved to sit on the following day, which was commonly called 
Christmas day." 






CHRISTMAS DAY 253 

stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and 
feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the 
Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 
with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church 5 
the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the 
gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The 
elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greet- 
ing and shaking hands ; and the children ran about cry- 
ing " Ule ! Ule ! " and repeating some uncouth rhymes, 1 10 
which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The villagers 
doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him 
the good wishes of the season with every appearance of 
heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall 1 S 
to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, 
which convinced me that in the midst of his enjoyments 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- 
mas virtue of charity. 20 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a 
rising ground which commanded something of a pros- 
pect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then 
reached our ears. The squire paused for a few moments, 25 
and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. 
The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire 
philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the 
morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired 
sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow 30 
from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living 

1 Ule I Ule ! 
Three puddings in a pule 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! 



254 THE SKETCH BOOK 

green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with 
the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. 
Every sheltered bank on which the broad rays rested 
5 yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water glittering 
through the dripping grass, and sent up slight exhala- 
tions to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above 
the surface of the earth. There was something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the 

io frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, 
an emblem of Christmas hospitality breaking through 
the chills of ceremony and selfishness and thawing every 
heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indi- 
cations of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 

15 comfortable farmhouses and low thatched cottages. " I 
love," said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and. 
poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at 
least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you 
go, and of having, as it were, the world thrown all open 

20 to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor 
Robin in his malediction on every churlish enemy to 
this honest festival : 

Those who at Christmas do repine 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 
25 May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 

Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em. 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent at 
this season among the lower orders and countenanced by 
30 the higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor- 
houses were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables 
were covered with brawn and beef and humming ale ; 
when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and 



CHRISTMAS DAY 255 

when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
make merry. 1 "Our old games and local customs," said 
he, "had a great effect in making the peasant fond of 
his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry 
made him fond of his lord. They made the times mer- 5 
rier and kinder and better, and I can truly say, with one 
of our old poets : 

I like them well ; the curious preciseness 

And all-pretended gravity of those 

That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 10 

Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have 
almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They 
have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem 
to think their interests are separate. They have become 15 
too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to 
ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one 
mode to keep them in good humor in these hard times 
would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time 
on their estates, mingle more among the country people, 20 
and set the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating pub- 
lic discontent ; and indeed he had once attempted to put 
his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept 
open house during the holidays in the old style. The 25 
country people, however, did not understand how to play 

1 " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i.e., on 
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors 
enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the 
blackjacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and 
good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be 
boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden 
{i.e., the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place till 
she is shamed of her laziness." — Round about otcr Sea-Coal Fire, 



256 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their parts in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth 
circumstances occurred; the manor was overrun by all 
the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn 
into the neighborhood in one week than the parish 
5 officers could get rid of in a year. Since then he had 
contented himself with inviting the decent part of the 
neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christ- 
mas day, and with distributing beef and bread and ale 
among the poor, that they might make merry in their 

10 own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads 
without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with rib- 
bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their 

15 hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a 
large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall door, where the music struck up a pecul- 
iar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate 
dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs 

20 together, keeping exact time to the music ; while one, 
whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which 
flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts 
of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many 
antic gesticulations. 

25 The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 
interest and delight, and gave me a full account of its 
origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans 
held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this 
was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the 

30 ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but 
he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neigh- 
borhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell 
the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough 
cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." 



CHRISTMAS DAY 257 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. 
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the 5 
younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to 
their mouths when the squire's back was turned, mak- 
ing something of a grimace and giving each other the 
wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled 
grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Mas- 10 
ter Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. 
His varied occupations and amusements had made him 
well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a 
visitor at every farmhouse and cottage, gossiped with 
the farmers and their wives, romped with their daughters, 15 
and like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country 
round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine 20 
and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders when 
it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, 
and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by 
a patron gladdens the heart of the dependant more than 25 
oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, 
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 
faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit 
of the village ; for I observed all his companions to wait 30 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- 
tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment ; as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I 



258 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking 
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band 
of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- 
bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a 
5 jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other 
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, 
coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers's Juvenilia. 

I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with 
Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a 
distant thwacking sound, which he informed me was 
a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The squire 
kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the 5 
rolling-pin struck upon the dresser by the cook sum- 
moned the servants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 10 

Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away. 1 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, 15 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 

1 Sir John Suckling. 
259 



260 THE SKETCH BOOK 

spacious apartment, and the name went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been 
profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and 
5 holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the hel- 
met and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, 
by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity 
of the painting and armor as having belonged to the 

10 crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent 
days ; but I was told that the painting had been so con- 
sidered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it 
had been found in a lumber room and elevated to its 
present situation by the squire, who at once determined 

15 it to be the armor of the family hero ; and as he was 
absolute authority on all such subjects in his own house- 
hold, the matter had passed into current acceptation. 
A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, 
on which was a display of plate that might have vied 

20 (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the 
vessels of the temple ; " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, gob- 
lets, basins, and ewers," the gorgeous utensils of good 
companionship that had gradually accumulated through 
many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these 

25 stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of 
the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in 
branches, and the whole array glittered like a firma- 
ment of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 

30 sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a 
stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument 
with a vast deal more power than melody. N ,. did 

Ufa 

Christmas board display a more goodly and <§>us 

assemblage of countenances ; those who were md- 



\ 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 261 

some were at least happy ; and happiness is a rare im- 
prover of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 
an old English family as well worth studying as a col- 
lection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's prints. 
There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much 5 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Per- 
haps it may be from having continually before their eyes 
those rows of old family portraits with which the man- 
sions of this country are stocked ; certain it is that the 
quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully 10 
perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an 
old family nose through a whole picture gallery, legiti- 
mately handed down from generation to generation, 
almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of 
the kind was to be observed in the worthy company 15 
around me. Many of their faces had evidently origi- 
nated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by suc- 
ceeding generations ; and there was one little girl in 
particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose 
and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite 20 
of the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, 
and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who 
figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 25 
unceremonious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded 
one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as 
if something was expected, when suddenly the butler 
entered the hall with some degree of bustle ; he was 
attended by a servant on each side with a large wax- 30 
light, and bore a silver dish on which was an enormous 
pig's head decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its 
mouth, which was placed with great formality at the 
head of the table. The moment this pageant made its 



262 THE SKETCH BOOK 

appearance, the harper struck up a flourish ; at the con- 
clusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint 
from the squire, gave, with an air of the most comic 
gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as 
5 follows : 

Caput apri defero 
Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
10 I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little 
eccentricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby 
of mine host, yet I confess the parade with which so odd 

r5 a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I 
gathered from the conversation of the squire and the 
parson that it was meant to represent the bringing in of 
the boar's head, a dish formerly served up with much 
ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at 

20 great tables on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," 
said the squire, "not merely because it is stately and 
pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- 
lege at Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear 
the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when 

25 I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college 
hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in their 
black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in 
their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted 

30 by such associations, and who was always more taken 
up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the 
Oxonian's version of the carol, which he affirmed was 
different from that sung at college. He went on, with 
the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 263 

college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations, 
addressing himself at first to the company at large ; but 
finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk 
and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in 5 
an under voice to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, 
who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge 
plateful of turkey. 1 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and 
presented an epitome of country abundance in this sea- 10 
son of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was 
allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; 
being, as he added, "the standard of old English hospi- 
tality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expec- 
tation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, 15 

1 The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas 
day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was 
favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as 
it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these 
grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 



264 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and which had evidently something traditional in their 
embellishments ; but about which, as I did not like to 
appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
5 decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the 
tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable 
tract of the table. This, the squire confessed with some 
little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock 
pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had 

io been such a mortality among the peacocks this season 
that he could not prevail upon himself to have one 
killed. 1 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, 
who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and 

15 obsolete things to which I am a liitle given, were I to 
mention the other makeshifts of this worthy old humor- 
ist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though 
at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I 
was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his 

20 whims by his children and relatives, who, indeed, entered 

1 The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately enter- 
tainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which 
the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak 
richly gilt ; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were 
served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant 
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence 
came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and 
pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas 
feast ; and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the 
extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared 
for the gorgeous revels of the olden times : 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues ; 
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat -wethers 
bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 265 

readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well 
versed in their parts, having doubtless been present at 
many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of pro- 
found gravity with which the butler and other servants 
executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. 5 
They had an old-fashioned look, — having, for the most 
part, been brought up in the household, and grown into 
keeping with the antiquated mansion and the humors 
of its lord, — and most probably looked upon all his 
whimsical regulations as the established laws of honor- 10 
able housekeeping. 

When # the cloth was removed, the butler brought in 
a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, 
which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was 
hailed with acclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, so 15 
renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had 
been prepared by the squire himself ; for it was a bev- 
erage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly 
prided himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and 
complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. 20 
It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the 
heart of a toper leap within him, being composed of 
the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweet- 
ened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. 1 

1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of 
wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this 
way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, 
and round the hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is 
also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his 
Twelfth Night : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 






266 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with 
a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this 
mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty 
wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it 
5 brimming round the board for every one to follow his 
example, according to the primitive style — pronouncing 
it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all 
hearts met together." 1 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 

10 emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 

rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master 

Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the^air of a 

boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle, 
15 The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a, 
Fill 
Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
20 And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 
The merry deep canne, 
As thou dost freely quaff-a, 
Sing 
25 Fling, 

Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a. 2 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics to which I was a stranger. There was, 

1 " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to 
each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with 
the Wassel, he was to cry three times, IVassel, Wassel, Wassel, and 
then the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with a song." — Arch^E- 
OLOGIA. 2 From Poor Robin's Almanac. 






THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 269 

however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon abn, 
some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having 
a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies; 
but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat- 
headed old gentleman next the parson, with the perse- 5 
vering assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those 
long-winded jokers who, though rather dull at starting 
game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. 
At every pause in the general conversation he renewed 
his bantering in pretty much the same terms, winking 10 
hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master 
Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, 
indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as 
old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to 
inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question 15 
was a prodigiously fine woman and drove her own 
curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in 
its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, 20 
yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and 
genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent 
being to diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is 
a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything 
in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous dis- 25 
position of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; 
he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the 
world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his humor 
did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his 
philanthropy. 30 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as 
usual, became still more animated ; many good things 
were broached which had been thought of during din- 
ner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear ; 



266 THE SKETCH BOOK 

d though I cannot positively affirm that there was 
much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many con- 
tests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after 
all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too 
5 acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humor is the 
oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial 
companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather 
small and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college 

io pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little, dark 
anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pic- 

15 tures of what men may be made by their different lots 
in life. The squire had left the university to live lustily 
on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a 
hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on 

20 the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty 
tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still 
there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire 
feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the 
squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty 

25 milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, 
the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," which, 
as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily 
believe was indicative of laughter; — indeed, I have 
rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute 

30 offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on 
the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew 
merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master 
Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 269 

with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, 
and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He 
even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, 
which he informed me he had gathered from an excel- 
lent black-letter work, entitled Cupid's Solicitor for Love, 5 
containing store of good advice for bachelors, and 
which he promised to lend me. The first verse was to 
this effect : 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 

He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 10 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 

But boldly say, " Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose; but he always 15 
stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter 
part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show 
the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down 
into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on 
one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to 20 
the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instiga- 
tion of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tem- 
pered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was 
given up to the younger members of the family, who, 25 
prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and 
Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merri- 
ment, as they played at romping games. I delight in 
witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at 
this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing 30 
out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals 
of laughter. I found them at the game of blindman's- 
buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, 



270 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that 
ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule, 1 was blinded in 
the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy 
about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching 
5 him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him 
with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, 
with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic 
face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a 
complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; 

10 and, from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided 
the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in 
corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded 
than was convenient. 

15 When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the 
company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, 
who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, 
the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had 
been brought from the library for his particular accom- 

20 modation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with 
which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admi- 
rably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of 
the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding 
country, with which he had become acquainted in the 

25 course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined 
to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat 
tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be 
who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered 
part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 

30 so often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. 

1 At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever 
hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, 
and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or 
good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall. — Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DIXXER 271 

He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the 
neighboring peasantry concerning the effigy of the cru- 
sader which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As 
it was the only monument of the kind in that part of 
the country, it had always been regarded with feelings 5 
of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was 
said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of 
the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it 
thundered; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered 
on the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of 10 
the church when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and 
down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had 
been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure 
hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and 
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in 15 
the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there 
was a story current of a sexton in old times who endeav- 
ored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as 
he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble 
hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the 20 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some 
of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came 
on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were 
shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across 
the churchyard. 25 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something 
supernatural about it ; for they remarked that in what- 30 
ever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior 
were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the 
lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, 
and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed 



272 THE SKETCH BOOK 

that in her young days she had often heard say that on 
Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of 
ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk 
abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 

5 down from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which 
occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself ; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed 
gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of 

10 the dairymaids to pass between two bars of the great 
park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 
countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- 
tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He 

15 listened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips 
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 
favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He 
was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
and often lamented that he could not believe in them; 

20 for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a 
kind of fairyland. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, 
our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heteroge- 
neous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled some- 

25 thing like the clang of rude minstrelsy with the uproar 
of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the 
room that might almost have been mistaken for the 
breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefati- 

30 gable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of 
his duties as Lord of Misrule, had conceived the idea of 
a Christmas mummery, or masking ; and having called 
in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, 
who were equally ripe for anything that should occasion 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 273 

romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant 
effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the 
antique clothespresses and wardrobes rummaged, and 
made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen 
the light for several generations ; the younger part of the 5 
company had been privately convened from the parlor 
and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out into a 
burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 1 

Master Simon led the van, as Ancient Christmas, 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak which had 10 
very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's 
petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village 
steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days 
of the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved 
boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that 15 
seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was 
accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as 
Dame Mince Pie, in the venerable 'magnificence of a 
faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high- 
heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin 20 
Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal Green, and a 
foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to 
deep research, and there was an evident eye to the pic- 
turesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence of 25 
his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty 
rustic dress as Maid Marian. The rest of the train 
had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls 
trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the 

1 Maskings, or mummeries, were favorite sports at Christmas in 
old times ; and the wardrobes at halls and manor houses were often 
laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. 
I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from 
Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



274 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with 
burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging 
sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the char- 
acter of Roast Beef, Plum-pudding, and other worthies 

5 celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under 
the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character 
of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather a 
mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller per- 
sonages of the pageant. 

10 The irruption of this motley crew with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of 
uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself 
with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient 
Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though 

15 giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance 
of all the characters, which from its medley of costumes 
seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and 

20 left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes, and riga- 
doons ; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily 
down the middle, through a line of succeeding genera- 
tions. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports 

25 and this resurrection of his old wardrobe with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rub- 
bing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing 
most authentically on the ancient and stately dance of 

30 the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the min- 
uet to be derived. 1 For my part, I was in a continual 

1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, 
from pavo, a peacock, says : " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the 
method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 215 

excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- 
eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out 
from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy and catching once more the 5 
freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
in the scene from the consideration that these fleeting 
customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this 
was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the 
whole of them was still punctiliously observed. There 10 
was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry that 
gave it a peculiar zest ; it was suited to the time and 
place ; and as the old manor house almost reeled with 
mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality 
of long departed years. 1 15 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time 
for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the 
questions asked by my graver readers, " To what pur- 
pose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by 
this talk ? " Alas ! is there not wisdom enough extant 20 
for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there 
not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment ? — It is so much pleasanter to please than to in- 
struct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers 
in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the 
motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — His- 
tory of Music. 

1 At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of 
an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some 
as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of wit- 
nessing almost all the customs above described, existing in unex- 
pected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he 
passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice of 
them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



276 THE SKETCH BOOK 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could 
throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure 
that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the 
opinions of others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, 
5 the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, 
I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out 
one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy 
heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
10 prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings 
and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written 
entirely in vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 

I do walk 
Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond 
of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times. 
These are principally to be found in the depths of the 
city, swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of 
brick and mortar, but deriving poetical and romantic 5 
interest from the commonplace prosaic world around 
them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in 
the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; 
for the city is only to be explored to advantage in 
summer time, when free from the smoke and fog and 10 
rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for 
some time against the current of population setting 
through Fleet Street. The warm weather had unstrung 
my nerves, and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle 
and discordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit 15 
faint, and I was getting out of humor with the bustling, 
busy throng through which I had to struggle, when in 
a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, 
plunged into a by-lane, and, after passing through several 
obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and 20 
quiet court with a grassplot in the centre overhung by 
elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain 
with its sparkling jet of water. A student with book 

277 



278 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, 
partly meditating on the movements of two or three 
trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon 
5 an oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By 
degrees the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my 
nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, 
and came hard by to a very ancient chapel with a low- 
browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. 

io The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from 
above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, 
on which were extended the marble effigies of warriors 
in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon 
the breast ; others grasped the pommel of the sword, 

15 menacing hostility even in the tomb ! — while the crossed 
legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had 
been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; 

20 and I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man 
of the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the 
highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among 
these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and 
forgetfulness. 

25 In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered 
another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up 
in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some 
time through dull monotonous streets destitute of any- 
thing to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I 

30 beheld before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering antiq- 
uity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the 
courtyard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which 
stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiq- 



LONDON ANTIQUES 279 

uity hunting I ventured in, though with dubious steps. 
Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, 
I continued on until I found myself in a great hall with 
a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic archi- 
tecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fire- 5 
place with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end 
was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a 
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet 10 
and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, 
that I had not met with a human being since I had passed 
the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a 
recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad 15 
flood of yellow sunshine checkered here and there by 
tints from panes of colored glass, while an open case- 
ment let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my 
head on my hand and my arm on an old oaken table, 
I indulged in a sort of reverie about what might have 20 
been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently 
been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate 
establishments built of yore for the promotion of learn- 
ing, where the patient monk in the ample solitude of the 
cloister added page to page and volume to volume, emu- 25 
lating in the productions of his brain the magnitude of 
the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, 
and a number of gray-headed old men clad in long black 30 
cloaks came forth one by one ; proceeding in that man- 
ner through the hall, without uttering a word, each turn- 
ing a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing 
through a door at the lower end. 



280 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their 
black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style 
of this most venerable -and mysterious pile. It was as 
if the ghosts of the departed years about which I had 

5 been musing were passing in review before me. Pleas- 
ing myself with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of 
romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a realm 
of shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial 
realities. 

io My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior 
courts and corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the 
main edifice had many additions and dependencies, built 
at various times and in various styles ; in one open space 
a number of boys, who evidently belonged to the estab- 

15 lishment, were at their sports ; but everywhere I observed 
those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- 
times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups ; 
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. 
I now called to mind what I had read of certain colleges 

20 in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necro- 
mancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were 
taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, and 
were these black-cloaked old men really professors of 
the black art ? 

25 These surmises were passing through my mind as my 
eye glanced into a chamber hung round with all kinds of 
strange and uncouth objects, implements of savage war- 
fare, strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled ser- 
pents and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while 

30 on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned 
a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic 
chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necro- 
mancer, when I was startled at beholding a human coun- 



LONDON AXTIQUES 281 

tenance staring at me from a dusk)* corner. It was that 
of a small, shrivelled old man with thin cheeks, bright 
eyes, and gray, wiry, projecting eyebrows. I at first 
doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously pre- 
served, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It 5 
was another of those black-cloaked old men, and as 
I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, 
and the hideous and sinister objects by which he was 
surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had 
come upon the arch-mago who ruled over this magical 10 
fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter. I obeyed with singular hardihood, for how 
did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- 
morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me 15 
into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece ? He proved, 
however, to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple 
garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with 
which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no 
less antiquated inhabitants. 20 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre 
of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and 
decayed householders, with which was connected a school 
for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards 
of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, 25 
and retained somewhat of the conventual air and charac- 
ter. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who 
had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had ele- 
vated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners return- 
ing from morning service in the chapel. 30 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I 
had made the arch magician, had been for six years a 
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nes- 
tling-place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up 



282 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in the course of his life. According to his own account 
he had been somewhat of a traveller, having been once 
in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
regretted not having visited the latter country, as then 
5 he might have said he "had been there." He was evi- 
dently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keeping 
aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. 
His chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin 

io and Greek — of both which languages Hallum was pro- 
foundly ignorant — and a broken-down gentleman who 
had run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds 
left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the 
marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to 

15 consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as well 
as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous 
sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into 
which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called 

20 the Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was 
founded in 161 1, on the remains of an ancient convent, 
by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble chari- 
ties set on foot by individual munificence, and kept up 
with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst 

25 the modern changes and innovations of London. Here 
eighty broken-down men who have seen better days are 
provided in their old age with food, clothing, fuel, and 
a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine 
together, as did the monks of old, in the hall which had 

30 been the refectory of the original convent. Attached 
to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, 
speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pension- 



LONDON ANTIQUES 283 

ers, says : " They are not to intermeddle with any busi- 
ness touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend 
only to the service of God, and take thankfully what 
is provided for them, without muttering, murmuring, or 
grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored 5 
boots, spurs, or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, 
or any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as 
becomes hospital men to wear." "And in truth," adds 
Stow, " happy are they that are so taken from the cares 
and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place 10 
as these old men are ; having nothing to care for but the 
good of their souls, to serve God, and to live in brotherly 
love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested 
by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own 15 
observation,* and who may wish to know a little more 
about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of 
local history, put into my hands by an odd-looking old 
gentleman in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored 
coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after my 20 
visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little 
dubious at first whether it was not one of those apocry- 
phal tales often passed off upon inquiring travellers like 
myself, and which have brought our general character 
for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making 25 
proper inquiries, however, I have received the most sat- 
isfactory assurances of the author's probity; and indeed 
have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and 
particular account of the very interesting region in 
which he resides, of which the following may be con- 30 
sidered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

What I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases lying by 
me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing 
of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. „ 

In the centre of the great city of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets 
and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, 
which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ 
5 Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound 
it on the west, Smithneld and Long Lane on the north, 
Aldersgate Street like an arm of the sea divides it from 
the eastern part of the city, whilst the yawning gulf of 
Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane 

10 and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, 
thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. 
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Pater- 
noster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks 
down with an air of motherly protection. 

15 This quarter derives its appellation from having been 
in ancient times the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. 
As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled 
off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels took 
possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Little 

20 Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled 
by the busy and prolific race of booksellers ; these also 
gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great 
strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row 
and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to in- 

25 crease and multiply even at the present day. 

284 






LITTLE BRITAIN 285 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 
houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are 
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hid- 
eous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and fruits 5 
and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to clas- 
sify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain re- 
mains of what were once spacious and lordly family 
mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided 
into several tenements. Here may often be found the 10 
family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, 
burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in 
great rambling time-stained apartments with fretted 
ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fire- 
places. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller 15 
houses, not on so grand a scale, but like your small 
ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to 
equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the 
street ; great bow windows with diamond panes set in 
lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched doorways. 1 20 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have 
I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably 
lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but 
oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted 
chamber with small panels, and set off with a miscella- 25 
neous array of furniture. I have a particular respect 
for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs covered 
with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having 
seen better days, and have doubtless figured in some of 
the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to 30 
keep together, and to look down with sovereign con- 

1 It is evident that the author of this interesting communication 
has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those 
little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



286 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I 
have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the 
plebeian society with which they were reduced to asso- 
ciate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up 
5 with a bow window, on the panes of which are recorded 
the names of previous occupants for many generations, 
mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentlemanlike 
poetry written in characters which I can scarcely deci- 
pher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of 

10 Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, 
and passed away. As I am an idle personage with no 
apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every 
week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentle- 
man of the neighborhood ; and being curious to learn 

15 the internal state of a community so apparently shut up 
within itself, I have managed to work my way into all 
the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of 
the city, the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a 

20 fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its 
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great 
preservation many of the holiday games and customs of 
yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on 
Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on Good Friday, and 

25 roast goose at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on 
Valentine's Day, " burn the pope " on the fifth of Novem- 
ber, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christ- 
mas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in 
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain 

30 their grounds as the only true English wines, all others 
being considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, 
which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; 
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the 



LITTLE BRITAIN 287 

beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at 
St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions in the 
Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still 
believe in dreams and fortune telling, and an old woman 
that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable 5 
subsistence by detecting stolen goods and promising 
the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered 
uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog 
howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign 
of a death in the place. There are even many ghost 10 
stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion 
houses, in several of which it is said strange sights are 
sometimes seen. Lords and ladies — the former in full- 
bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter 
in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade — have been seen 1 5 
walking up and down the great waste chambers on 
moonlight nights, and are supposed to be the shades of 
the ancient proprietors in their court dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. 
One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry 20 
old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a 
small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous counte- 
nance full of cavities and projections, with a brown cir- 
cle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He 
is much thought of by the old women, who consider 25 
him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three 
stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop and several 
snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs 
and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarm- 
ing accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, 30 
and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he con- 
siders as signs of the times. He has always some dis- 
mal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers with 
their doses, and thus at the same time puts both soul 



288 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in 
omens and predictions, and has the prophecies of Rob- 
ert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can 
make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually 
5 dark day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over 
the heads of his customers and disciples until they were 
nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got 
hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has 
been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying cur- 
io rent among the ancient sibyls who treasure up these 
things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the 
Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of 
Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely 
15 come to pass. The same architect has been engaged 
lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange and 
the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the 
dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, 
in the yard of his workshop. 
20 " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may 
go star-gazing and look for conjunctions in the heavens, 
but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and 
under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and 
calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous 
25 weathercocks have thus laid their, heads together, won- 
derful events had already occurred. The good old king, 
notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had 
all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted 
the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly, another in 
30 France had been murdered ; there had been radical 
meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes 
at Manchester ; the great plot in Cato Street, — and, above 
all, the Queen had returned to England ! All these sin- 
ister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a myste- 






LITTLE BRITAIN 289 

rious look and a dismal shake of the head ; and being 
taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his 
auditors with stuffed sea monsters, bottled serpents, and 
his own visage, — which is a title-page of tribulation, — 
they have spread great gloom through the minds of the 5 
people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe that they never 
expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, 
which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the 
history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 10 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial 
cheesemonger, who lives in a fragment of one of the 
old family mansions, and is as magnificently lodged 
as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own 
Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and 15 
importance ; and his renown extends through Huggin 
Lane and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His 
opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having 
read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together 
with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of Eng- 20 
land, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with 
invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time 
and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is 
a moral impossible," so long as England is true to her- 
self, that anything can shake her ; and he has much to 25 
say on the subject of the national debt, which, somehow 
or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and 
blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the 
purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, hav- 
ing become rich and grown into the dignity of a Sunday 30 
cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. 
He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, 
Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has 
passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the me- 



290 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry 
the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage coachman 
of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes ; 
and he is considered quite a patron at the coach office 

5 of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His 
family have been very urgent for him to make an expe- 
dition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those new 
gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself 
too advanced in life to undertake sea voyages. 

io Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- 
sions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in con- 
sequence of two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in 
the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse- 
shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the 

15 other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of 
the apothecary ; it is needless to say that the latter was 
the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two 
at each, and have acquired much valuable information 
as to the best mode of being buried, the comparative 

20 merits of churchyards, together with divers hints on the 
subject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the ques- 
tion discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of 
prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. 
The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily 

25 died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing 
themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being 
extremely solicitous of funereal honors, and of lying 
comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of 

30 quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine 
of good humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets 
once a week at a little old-fashioned house kept by a 
jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing 
for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seduc- 



LITTLE BRITAIiV 291 

tive bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with 
inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer, such 
as "Truman, Hanbury and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, 
and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds," 
etc. This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and 5 
Momus from time immemorial. It has always been in 
the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is toler- 
ably preserved by the present landlord. It was much 
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of 
Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the 10 
wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff 
principally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, 
in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of 
his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This, how- 
ever, is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious 15 
boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here 
goes by the name of " The Roaring Lads of Little Brit- 
ain." They abound in old catches, glees, and choice 
stories that are traditional in the place, and not to be 20 
met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is 
a madcap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; 
but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of 
Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors 
were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the 25 
inn a large stock of songs and jokes which go with it 
from generation to generation as heirlooms. He is a 
dapper little fellow with bandy legs and pot belly, a red 
face with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray 
hair behind. At the opening of every club night he is 30 
called in to sing his "Confession of Faith," which is the 
famous old drinking troll from Gammer Gut-ton's Needle. 
He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he 
received it from his father's lips, for it has been a stand- 



292 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



ing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes 
ever since it was written ; nay, he affirms that his prede- 
cessors have often had the honor of singing it before 
the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when 
5 Little Britain was in all its glory. 1 

1 As mine host of the Half-Moon's " Confession of Faith " may 
not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of 
the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthog- 
raphy. I would observe that the whole club always join in the 
chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter 
pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 
Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the f yre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



LITTLE BRITAIX 293 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, 
the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now 
and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant 
voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such 
times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight 5 
equal to that of gazing into a confectioners window, or 
snuffing up the steams of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir 
and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholo- 
mew's Fair and the Lord Mayor's Day. During the time 10 
of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of 
Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and 
gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain 
are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and 
faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The 15 
fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom, morn- 
ing, noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, 
hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, 
fondling and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over 20 
their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, 
which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among 
my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There 
is no such thing as keeping maidservants within doors. 
Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and 25 
the Puppet Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, 

Now let them drynke. tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



294 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the Fire-Eater, the celebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish 
Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday money 
in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the 
Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

5 But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. 
The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of 
Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his 
gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splen- 
dor ; and his procession, with all the sheriffs and alder- 

io men in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. 
How they exult in the idea that the King himself dare 
not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of 
Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor ; 
for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing 

1 5 what might be the consequence. The man in armor who 
rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, 
has orders to cut down everybody that offends against 
the dignity of the city ; and then there is the little man 
with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the win- 

20 dow of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long 
as a pike-staff — Odd's blood ! If he once draws that 
sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, there- 
fore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. 

25 Temple Bar is an effectual barrier, against all interior 
foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but 
to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train bands, 
and put the standing army of beef-eaters under arms, 
and he may bid defiance to the world ! 

30 Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, 
and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished 
as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I 
have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, 
where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were gar- 



LITTLE BRITAIJV 295 

nered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character 
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have re- 
joiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- 
vailed throughout it; for though there might now and 
then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents 5 
of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occa- 
sional feud between the burial societies, yet these were 
but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neigh- 
bors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, 
and never abused each other except behind their backs. 10 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present, where we played at All- 
Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice 
old games ; and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- 
lish country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. 15 
Once a year also the neighbors would gather together 
and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would 
have done any man's heart good to see the merriment 
that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under 
the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of 20 
laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry 
undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would 
play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was 
amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and 
to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from 25 
among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round 
the cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk 
politics, for they generally brought out a newspaper in 
their pockets to pass away time in the country. They 
would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in 30 
argument ; but their disputes were always adjusted by 
reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, 
who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed 
somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. 



296 THE SKETCH BOOK 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or histo- 
rian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury 
and innovation creep in, factions arise, and families 
now and then spring up whose ambition and intrigues 

5 throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter 
days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been griev- 
ously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners 
threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family 
of a retired butcher. 

io The family of the Lambs had long been among the 
most thriving and popular in the neighborhood ; the 
Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every- 
body was pleased when old Lamb had made money 
enough to shut up shop and put his name on a brass 

15 plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the 
Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance 
on the Lady Mayoress at her grand annual ball, on 
which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers 
on her head. The family never got over it ; they were 

20 immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up 
a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the 
errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation 
of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no 
longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's- 

25 buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which 
nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they 
took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing 
upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been 
articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, 

30 characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he con- 
founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about^ 
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neigh- 



LITTLE BRITAIN 297 

bors, but they had a great deal of genteel company from 
Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts 
towards the west. There were several beaux of their 
brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton 
Garden, and not less than three aldermen's ladies with 5 
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or for- 
given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and 
the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The 
gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 10 
nightcaps out at every window, watching the crazy vehi- 
cles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old 
cronies that kept a lookout from a house just opposite 
the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every 
one that knocked at the door. 15 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- 
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some 20 
of her old cronies, "quite," as she would say, "in a 
friendly way " ; and it is equally true that her invita- 
tions were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows 
to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be 
delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would 25 
condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the 
piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest to 
Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, 
of Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich 
heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their 30 
consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confed- 
erates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation 
everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and 
their rout all to pieces. 



298 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The only one of the family that could not be made 
fashionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest 
Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a 
rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head 
5 of black hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled 
like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters 
always spoke of him as "the old gentleman," addressed 
him as "papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeav- 
ored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers and 

to other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there 
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature 
would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty, 
vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very 
jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he per- 

15 sisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, din- 
ing at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage with 
his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity 
of his family. He found his old comrades gradually 

20 growing cold and civil to him, no longer laughing at his 
jokes, and now and then throwing out a fling at " some 
people," and a hint about "quality binding." This 
both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; and his 
wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 

25 shrewder sex, taking advantage of trie circumstance, at 
length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's 
pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after dinner by 
himself and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested, 
and to nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 

30 The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along 
the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux, and 
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves 
of every good lady within hearing. They even went 
so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a 






LITTLE BRITAIN 299 

French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood ; 
but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul that he was fain to pack 
up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such 
precipitation that he absolutely forgot to pay for his 5 
lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all 
this fiery indignation on the part of the community was 
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English 
manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I ap- 10 
plauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in 
expressing for upstart pride, French fashions, and the 
Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived 
the infection had taken hold, and that my neighbors, 
after condemning, were beginning to follow their example. 1 5 
I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let 
their daughters have one quarter at French and music, 
and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I 
even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than 
five French bonnets precisely like those of the Miss 20 
Lambs parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually 
die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- 
borhood, might die, or might run away with attorneys' 
apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be 25 
again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival 
power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow 
with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. 
The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the 
parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their 30 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer 
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took 
the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 



300 THE SKETCH BOOK 

an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances ; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs 
5 appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trot- 
ters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be 
behindhand ; and though they might not boast of as 
good company, yet they had double the number and 

io were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two 
families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come- 
tickle-me are entirely discarded, there is no such thing 

15 as getting up an honest country dance, and on my 
attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last 
Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed, — the Miss Lambs 
having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry 
has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of 

20 Little Britain, the Lambs standing up for the dignity of 
Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity 
of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and inter- 
nal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it 

25 bears ; and what will be the result would puzzle the 
apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to 
determine, though I apprehend that it will terminate in 
the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 

30 Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an 
idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered 
the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand 
therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to 
hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 301 

As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all 
occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with 
both parties by abusing their opponents. I might man- 
age to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly 
accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension ; 5 
if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation 
and compare notes, I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, 
and am actually looking out for some other nest in this 
great city where old English manners are still kept up, 10 
where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken, 
and where there are no fashionable families of retired 
tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten 
away before I have an old house about my ears ; bid 
a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, 15 
and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trot- 
ters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon,, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide 
world which he can truly call his own, there is a momen- 
tary feeling of something like independence and terri- 
torial consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he 
5 kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world with- 
out go as it may, let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he 
has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is for the time 
being the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm- 

10 chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. 
It is a morsel of certainty snatched from the midst of the 
uncertainties of life, it is a sunny moment gleaming out 
kindly on a cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some 

15 way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the impor- 
tance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoy- 
ment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? " 
thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my 
elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little 

20 parlor of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from 
the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There 
was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, 

302 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 303 

putting in her smiling face, inquired with a hesitating 
air whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest 
hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute 
dominion was at an end; so abdicating my throne like 
a prudent potentate to avoid being deposed, and putting 5 
the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakes- 
peare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening morn- 
ings which we sometimes have in early spring, for it was 10 
about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter 
had suddenly given way, the north wind had spent its 
last gasp, and a mild air came stealing from the west, 
breathing the breath of life into nature and wooing 
every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and 15 
beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, 
and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to 
his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- 20 
looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place 
of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its off- 
spring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers 
are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- 
guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, 25 
from the prince to the peasant, and present a simple 
but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal 
homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty 
red face lighted up by a cold blue, anxious eye, and gar- 30 
nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair curling from 
under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly 
assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like 
all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the 



304 THE SKETCH BOOK 

shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakes- 
peare shot the deer on his poaching exploits. There, 
too, was his tobacco box, which proves that he was 
a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also 

5 with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lan- 
tern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and 
Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also 
of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems to have as 
extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood 

10 of the true cross, of which there is enough extant to 
build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of 
a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's 

15 shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, 
watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing 
of an urchin, or of an evening listening to the cronies and 
gossips of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales and 
legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng- 

20 land. In this chair it is the custom of every one that 
visits the house to sit, — whether this be done with the 
hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am 
at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact, — and mine 
hostess privately assured me that, though built of solid 

25 oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees that the chair 
had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It 
is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordi- 
nary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile 
nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto or the flying chair 

30 of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few 

years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it 

has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 

willing to be deceived where the deceit is pleasant and 



STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 305 

costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, 
and would advise all travellers who travel for their grati- 
fication to be the same. What is it to us whether these 
stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 5 
selves into the belief of them and enjoy all the charm 
of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute, good- 
humored credulity in these matters ; and on this occa- 
sion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims 
of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, 10 
luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her 
own composition which set all belief in her consan- 
guinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces 
brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel 15 
of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, moul- 
dering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on 
the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and 
separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; the river runs 20 
murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms 
which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its 
clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which 
are curiously interlaced so as to form in summer an 
arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard 25 
to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with 
grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk 
into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has 
likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds 
have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of 30 
the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping, 
and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray 
spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray- 



306 THE SKETCH BOOK 

headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home 
to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, 
man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to con- 
sider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
5 that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few 
years past. His dwelling was a cottage looking out 
upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, and was a 
picture of that neatness, order, and comfort which per- 
vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low 

10 white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, 
served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter 
and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an 
old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family 
Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the 

15 family library, composed of about half a score of well- 
thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important 
article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side 
of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging on one 
side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane 

20 on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and 
deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In 
one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a 
pretty blue-eyed girl ; and in the opposite corner was a 
superannuated crony whom he addressed by the name 

25 of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his compan- 
ion from childhood. They had played together in 
infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they 
were now tottering about and gossiping away the even- 
ing of life; and in a short time they will probably be 

30 buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is 
not often that we see two streams of existence running 
thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in 
such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be 
met with. 



1 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 307 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of 
the bard from these ancient chroniclers, but they had 
nothing new to impart. The long interval during which 
Shakespeare's writings lay in comparative neglect has 
spread its shadow over his history, and it is his good or 5 
evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biogra- 
phers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Strat- 
ford Jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime 10 
mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, 
and who, according to the sexton, was "a short punch 
man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted 
also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of 
which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale, no doubt 15 
a sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak 
very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the 
Shakespeare house. John Ange shook his head when I 
mentioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly 20 
her remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton 
even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been 
born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked 
upon her mansion with an evil eye as a rival to the 
poet's tomb, the latter having comparatively but few 25 
visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth 
diverge into different channels even at the fountain 
head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of 30 
limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- 
mented, with carved doors of massive oak. The inte- 
rior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments 
superior to those of most country churches. There are 



308 THE SKETCH BOOK 

several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over 
some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners 
dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakes- 
peare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 

5 chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and 
the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, 
keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks 
the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines 
inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, 

io and which have in them something extremely awful. If 
they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about 
the quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensi- 
bilities and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
15 To dig the dust enclosed here. 

Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust 
of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and con- 

20 sidered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and 
serene, with a finely arched forehead, and I thought I 
could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition by which he was as much characterized 
among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his 

25 genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time 
of his decease, — fifty-three years, — an untimely death 
for the world ; for what fruit might not have been ex- 
pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered 
as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flour- 

30 ishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been with- 
out its effect. It has prevented the removal of his 
remains from the bosom of his native place to West- 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 309 

minster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. 
A few years since, also, as some laborers were digging to 
make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in so as to leave 
a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one 
might have reached into his grave. No one, however, 5 
presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded 
by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, 
or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit 
depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place 
for two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- 10 
ture closed again. He told me that he had made bold 
to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor 
bones — nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, 
to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 15 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old 
friend, John Combe of usurious memory, on whom he 
is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are 
other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 20 
on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. 
His idea pervades the place, the whole pile seems but 
as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and 
thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence ; 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is 25 
palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the 
sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea that in very truth the remains of 
Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was 
a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave 30 
the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard I 
plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only 
relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's 



310 THE SKETCH BOOK 

devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat 
of the Lucys, at Charlecote, and to ramble through the 
park where Shakespeare, in company with some of the 
roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of 
5 deer-stealing. In this hairbrained exploit we are told 
that he was taken prisoner and carried to the keeper's 
lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. 
When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy his 
treatment must have been galling and humiliating, for 

io it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough 
pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at 
Charlecot. 1 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight 
so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick 

15 to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhym- 
ing deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the 
united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country 
attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of 
the Avon and his paternal trade, wandered away to Lon- 

20 don, became a hanger-on to the theatres, then an actor, 
and finally wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indif- 
ferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal 
poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of 

25 the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecote, and re- 

1 The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great, 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 3 1 1 

venged himself in his writings, but in the sportive way 
of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the 
original Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed 
upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
those of the knight, had white luces x in the quarterings. 5 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers 
to soften and explain away this early transgression of 
the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thought- 
less exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. 
Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness 10 
and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undi- 
rected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally 
something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it 
runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything 
eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 15 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius 
shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had 
not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, 
he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has 
all dramatic laws. 20 

I have little doubt that in early life, when running, 
like an unbroken colt about the neighborhood of Strat- 
ford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of 
odd anomalous characters ; that he associated with all 
the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky 25 
urchins at mention of whom old men shake their heads, 
and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck 
his eager and as yet untamed imagination as something 30 
delightfully adventurous. 2 

1 The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
Charlecote. 

2 A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his 



312 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The old mansion of Charlecote and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, 
and are peculiarly interesting from being connected 
with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the 

5 scanty history of the bard. As the house stood but 
little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, 
I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas 

10 of rural imagery. 

youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at 
Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque 
Views on the Avon. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market 
town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village 
yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the " Bedford 
topers," and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring 
villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of 
Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads, and 
in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of 
the proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true 
to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was 
staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had 
yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a 
mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under 
a crab tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and 
goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed 
returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, 
having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 

Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 

Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the 
epithets thus given them ; the people of Pebworth are still famed for 
their skill on the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough is now called ' Haunted 
Hilborough,' and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 313 

The country was yet naked and leafless, but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and 
animating to witness this first awakening of spring, to 5 
feel its warm breath stealing over the senses, to see the 
moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and shrubs 
in their reviving tints and bursting buds giving the 
promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow- 10 
drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was 
to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small 
gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new- 
dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The 
sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding 15 
hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his late 
querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up 
from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered 
away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents 
of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting 20 
up higher and higher until his body was a mere speck 
on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still 
filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's 
exquisite little song in Cymbeline : 

Hark! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 25 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 30 

With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 



314 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground ; 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort 
of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate 
5 knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those 
legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has 
woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, 
we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter even- 
ings " to sit round the fire and tell merry tales of errant 

10 knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, 
thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." x 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the 
Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings 
and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; some- 

15 times glittering from among willows which fringed its 
borders, sometimes disappearing among groves or be- 
neath green banks, and sometimes rambling out into 
full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of 
meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called 

20 the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulat- 
ing blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the 
soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained 
in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I 

25 turned off into a footpath which led along the borders 
of fields and under hedgerows to a private gate of the 

1 Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, 
spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, 
syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, 
imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin- 
good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell- 
waine, the fier-drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our 
own shadowes." 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 3 1 5 

park ; there was a stile, however, for the benefit of the 
pedestrian, there being a public right of way through 
the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in 
which every one has a kind of property — at least as far 
as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure recon- 5 
ciles a poor man to his lot, and what is more to the bet- 
ter lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure 
grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes 
the pure air as freely and lolls as luxuriously under the 
shade as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the 10 
privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not 
at the same time the trouble of paying for it and keep- 
ing it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. 15 
The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and 
the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree- 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, 
with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue 
and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 20 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 
from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had 25 
their origin in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the 
long settled dignity and proudly concentrated independ- 
ence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy 
but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the 30 
sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that money could 
do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, 
there was no such thing as suddenly building up an 
avenue of oaks. • 



316 THE SKETCH BOOK 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoin- 
ing park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the 
Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators 
5 have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations 
of Jaques and the enchanting woodland pictures in As 
You Like It. It is in lonely wanderings through such 
scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
inspiration and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 

10 and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into 
reverie and rapture, vague but exquisite images and 
ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and 
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in 
some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very 

15 trees before me which threw their broad shades over 
the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that 
the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little 
song which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

Under the greenwood tree, 
20 Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
25 No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 
building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic 
style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the 
30 first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly 
in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- 
men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of 
those days. A great gateway opens from the park into 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 317 

a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented 
with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway 
is in imitation of the ancient barbican, being a kind of 
outpost, and flanked by towers, though evidently for 
mere ornament instead of defence. The front of the 5 
house is completely in the old style, with stone-shafted 
casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and 
a portal with armorial bearings over it carved in stone. 
At each corner of the building is an octagon tower sur- 
mounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 10 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 
bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds 
of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders, and 
swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I 15 
contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to 
mind FalstafT's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, 
and the affected indifference and real vanity of the 
latter: 

Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 20 

Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, 
Sir John : — marry, good air. 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of still- 
ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened 25 
into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of ser- 
vants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly 
at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss- 
troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life 
that I met with was a white cat stealing with wary look 3° 
and stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on some 
nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcase of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended 



318 THE SKETCH BOOK 

against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still 
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers and maintain 
that rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so 
strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 
5 After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal which was the everyday 
entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by 
a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and 
communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior 

io of the house. The greater part has undergone altera- 
tions and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of 
living. There is a fine old oaken staircase, and the 
great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must have had in 

15 the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and 
lofty, and at one end is a gallery in which stands an 
organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which 
formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have 
made way for family portraits. There is a wide, hospi- 

20 table fireplace, calculated for an ample, old-fashioned 
wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. 
On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- 
window with stone shafts, which looks out upon the 
courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the 

25 armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- 
tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which 
the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with 
that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 

30 first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the 
Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his 
men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The 
poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his com- 
rades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 319 

family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shal- 
low to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of 
Sir Thomas. 

Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star 
Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he 5 
shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
coram,. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorwn. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum, too, and a gentleman born, 10 
master parson ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, war- 
rant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these 
three hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, 1 5 
and all his ancestors that come after him may ; they may give 
the dozen white luces in their coat. 

Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is 
no fear of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to 20 
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your viza- 
ments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it ! 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 25 
Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second. The old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed 
me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and 
had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, 30 
among which was that part of the park where Shakes- 
peare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands 
thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family 
even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant 



320 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dame to confess that -she had a surpassingly fine hand 
and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses 
5 of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the 
hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at 
first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, 
but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son, the 
only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon 
10 his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of 
Charlecote. 1 The picture gives a lively idea of the cos- 
tume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed 
in ruff and doublet, white shoes with roses in them, and 
has a peaked yellow, or as Master Slender would say, 

1 This effigy is in white marble, and represents the knight in com- 
plete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb 
is the following inscription, which, if really composed by her hus- 
band, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

" Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of 
Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of 
Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who 
departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 
io day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her 
age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful ser- 
vant of her good God, never detected of any.cryme or vice. In reli- 
gion most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. 
In friendship most constant ; to what in trust was committed unto 
her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, 
bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her 
moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. 
Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the 
envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so gar- 
nished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled 
by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. 
Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be 

true. 

Thomas Lucye." 



S TEA TFORD-ON-A VON 321 

"a cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the 
opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stom- 
acher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness 
and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled 
in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in 5 
the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow — 
all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, 
and archery, so indispensable to an accomplished gentle- 
man in those days. 1 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the 10 
hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the 
stately elbow-chair of carved oak in which the country 
squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of 
empire over his rural domains, and in which it might 
be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in 15 
awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought 
before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this 
very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's exam- 
ination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. 20 
I fancied to myself the rural potentate surrounded by 
his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving- 

1 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, 
observes : " His housekeeping is seen much in the different families 
of dogs and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deep- 
ness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he 
esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to 
seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his 
jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks: 
" He kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and 
badger; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. 
His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full 
of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad 
hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, 
and spaniels." 



322 THE SKETCH BOOK 

men, with their badges ; while the luckless culprit was 
brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of 
gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright 
5 faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened 
doors, while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 
knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful 
prisoner with that pity "that dwells in womanhood." 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 

10 trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, 
and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 
delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer 
immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a 

15 lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the gar- 
den, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor 
where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin 
Silence " to a last year's pippin " of his own grafting, 

20 with a " dish of caraways " ; but I had already spent so 
much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to 
give up any further investigations. When about to take 
my leave, I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the 
housekeeper and butler that I would take some refresh- 

25 ment — an instance of good old hospitality which, I 
grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in 
modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the 
present representative of the Lucys inherits from his 
ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes 

30 Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness 
his pressing instances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I 
will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall 
not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not 



STRA TFORD-OX-A VOX 



323 



be excused. . . . Some pigeons. Davy : a couple of short- 
legged hens : a joint of mutton : and any pretty little tiny kick- 
shaws, tell William Cook."' 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imag- 5 
inary scenes and characters connected with it that I 
seemed to be actually living among them. Everything 
brought them as it were before my eyes : and as the 
door of the dining-room opened. I almost expected to 
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth 10 
his favorite ditty : 

'T is merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
And welcome merrv Shrove-tide ! 



On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet : to be able thus to spread the 15 
masfic of his mind over the verv face of nature, to ofive 
to things and places a charm and character not their 
own, and to turn this " working-day world'' into a per- 
fect fairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose 
spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagi- 20 
nation and the heart. Under the wizard influence of 
Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete 
delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the 
prism of poetry which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 25 
beings, with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic 
power, yet which to me had all the charm of reality. 
I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak, had 
beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventur- 
ing through the woodlands, and above all had been once 3° 
more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his con- 
temporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to 



324 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. 
Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has 
thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illu- 
sions, who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
5 in my chequered path, and beguiled my spirit in many 
a lonely hour with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies 
of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 
I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 

io poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- 
tion which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet 
and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have 
derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a 

15 titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner in 
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave 
may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility ; 

20 but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices, 
and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find after all that there is no love, no admira- 

25 tion, no applause so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks 
to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred 
and his early friends. And when the weary heart and 
failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life 

30 is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to 
the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the 
scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 



S TRA TFORD- ON- A VON 325 

world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that before many years he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should 
become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 5 
treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day 
become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle land- 
scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to 
his tomb ! 10 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and 

. he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him 

not " 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of 
the North American savage, taken in connection with 
the scenery over which he is accustomed to range, — 
its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and 
5 trackless plains, — that is to my mind wonderfully strik- 
ing and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as 
the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, 
and enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties and to 
support privations. There seems but little soil in his 

10 heart for the support of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if 
we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that 
proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity which lock up 
his character from casual observation, we should find 
him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of 

15 those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed 
to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 
wronged by the white men : they have been dispossessed 

20 of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre- 
quently wanton warfare, and their characters have been 
traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colo- 
nist often treated them like beasts of the forest, and the 
author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. 

25 The former found it easier to exterminate than to civil- 

326 






TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 327 

ize, the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appel- 
lations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to 
sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor 
wanderers of the forest, were persecuted and defamed, 
not because they were guilty, but because they were 5 
ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he 
has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he 
has been regarded as a ferocious animal whose life or 10 
death was a question of mere precaution and conven- 
ience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
safety is endangered and he is sheltered by impunity, 
and little mercy is to be expected from him when he 
feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the 15 
power to destroy. 

The same prejudices which were indulged thus early 
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence 
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters 20 
and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- 
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to 
inculcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, 
and to protect them from fraud and injustice. 1 The 
current opinion of the Indian character, however, is too 25 
apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest 
the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the settlements. 

1 The American government has been indefatigable in its exer- 
tions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce 
among them the arts of civilization and civil and religious knowl- 
edge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no 
purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted ; nor is any 
person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the 
express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly 
enforced. 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK 

These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, 
corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited by its civilization. That proud inde- 
pendence which formed the main pillar of savage virtue 
5 has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies 
in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by 
a sense of inferority, and their native courage cowed 
and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of 
their enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon 

io them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes 
breed desolation over a whole region of fertility. It 
has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, 
and superinduced upon their original barbarity the low 
vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand 

15 superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means 
of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals 
of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the 
smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the depths 
of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we 

20 too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere 
wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have 

. lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into 
precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 
and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown 

25 in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every 
free and noble quality of their natures. They become 
drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. 
They loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among 
spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts which 

30 only render them sensible of the comparative wretched- 
ness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample 
board before their eyes, but they are excluded from the 
banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are 
starving in the midst of its abundance ; the whole wild- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 329 

erness has blossomed into a garden, but they feel as 
reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means 
of gratification within their reach. They saw every one 5 
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same 
hardships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose but was open 
to the homeless stranger ; no smoke curled among the 
trees but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and 10 
join the hunter in his repast. "For," says an old his- 
torian of New England, " their life is so void of care, 
and they are so loving also, that they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so 
compassionate that rather than one should starve through 15 
want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their time 
merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content 
with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." 
Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of 
their primitive natures; they resembled those wild plants 20 
which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink 
from the hand of cultivation and perish beneath the 
influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been 
too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate 25 
exaggeration, instead of the candid temper of true phi- 
losophy. They have not sufficiently considered the pe- 
culiar circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which they 
have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from 30 
rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated 
according to some general maxims early implanted in 
his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be 
sure, but few — but then he conforms to them all; the 



330 THE SKETCH BOOK 

white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and man- 
ners — but how many does he violate ? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians 
is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wan- 
5 tonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will 
suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white 
men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, 
distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 
them with that confidence and frankness which are in- 

10 dispensable to real friendship, nor is sufficient caution 
observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition which often prompt the Indian to hostility 
quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soli- 
tary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 

15 are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the 
white man, but they run in steadier and deeper chan- 
nels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all 
directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted 
on them are proportionately severe, and furnish motives 

20 of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. 
Where a community is also limited in number, and 
forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian 
tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the 
whole, and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instan- 

25 taneously diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the 
discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. 
Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Elo- 
quence and superstition combine to inflame the minds 
of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, 

30 and they are wrought up to a kind of religious despera- 
tion by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, aris- 
ing from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is 
extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massa- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 331 

chusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the 
monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plun- 
dered the grave of the sachem's mother of some skins 
with which it had been decorated. The Indians are 
remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for 5 
the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed 
generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, 
when by chance they have been travelling in the vicin- 
ity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, 
and guided by wonderfully accurate tradition have 10 
crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried 
perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
anciently deposited, and there have passed hours in 
silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy 
feeling, the sachem whose mother's tomb had been vio- 15 
lated gathered his men together and addressed them in 
the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue — 
a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting 
instance of filial piety in a savage : — 

"When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 20 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 
as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were 
fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, 
a spirit cried aloud : ' Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 25 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget 
to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced 
my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our 
antiquities and honorable customs ? See now the sa- 30 
chem's grave lies like the common people, defaced by 
an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and im- 
plores thy aid against this thievish people who have 
newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall 



332 THE SKETCH BOOK 

not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, 
the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce 
to speak, began to get some strength and recollect my 
spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your 
5 counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it 
tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which 
have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often 
arise from deep and generous motives which our inatten- 

10 tion to Indian character and customs prevents our prop- 
erly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians 
is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 

15 though sometimes called nations, were never so formi- 
dable in their numbers but that the loss of several war- 
riors was sensibly felt. This was particularly the case 
when they had frequently been engaged in warfare ; and 
many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe 

20 that had long been formidable to its neighbors has been 
broken up and driven away by the capture and massacre 
of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temp- 
tation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so 
much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for 

25 future security. The Indians had also the superstitious 
belief, frequent among barbarous nations and prevalent 
also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends 
who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of 
the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus 

30 sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of 
the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affec- 
tion of relatives and friends ; nay, so hospitable and 
tender is their entertainment, that when the alternative 
is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 333 

their adopted brethren rather than return to the home 
and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. 
What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- 5 
stition has been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men 
are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of 
their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their 
race. They go forth to battle smarting with injuries 10 
and indignities which they have individually suffered, 
and they are driven to madness and despair by the 
wide-spreading desolation and the overwhelming ruin 
of European warfare. The whites have too frequently 
set them an example of violence, by burning their vil- 15 
lages and laying waste their slender means of subsist- 
ence ; and yet they wonder that savages do not show 
moderation and magnanimity towards those who have 
left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and 20 
treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare in 
preference to open force ; but in this they are fully jus- 
tified by their rude code of honor. They are early 
taught that stratagem is praiseworthy. The bravest 
warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence and take 25 
every advantage of his foe ; he triumphs in the superior 
craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to sur- 
prise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally 
more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his 
physical .weakness in comparison with other animals. 30 
They are endowed with natural weapons of defence — 
with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man 
has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his 
encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to 



334 THE SKETCH BOOK 

stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility 
against his fellow-man, he at first continues the same 
subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
5 our enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this, of 
course, is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous 
courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of 
prudence and to rush in the face of certain danger is the 
offspring of society, and produced by education. It is 

io honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sen- 
timent over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
those yearnings after personal ease and security which 
society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by 
pride and the fear of shame, and thus the dread of real 

15 evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished 
and stimulated also by various means. It has been the 
theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. ' The 
poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the 

20 splendors of fiction, and even the historian has for- 
gotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth 
into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs 
and gorgeous pageants have been its reward ; monu- 
ments on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence 

25 its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's 
gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, 
courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious 
degree of heroism ; and arrayed in all the glorious 
" pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent qual- 

30 ity has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet 
but invaluable virtues which silently ennoble the human 
character and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual 






TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 335 

exhibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostil- 
ity and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his 
nature, or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties 
and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by 
hostile tribes whose mode of warfare is by ambush and 5 
surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with 
his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fear- 
ful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, as the bird 
mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a 
mere speck, across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian 10 
holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 
the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 
may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devotee or the crusade of the knight-errant. He 
traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely 15 
sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his 
wanderings ; in his light canoe of bark he sports like a 
feather on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of 
an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His 20 
very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 
of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, 
the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the 
thunders of the cataract. 25 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the 
Indian in his lofty contempt of death and the fortitude 
with which he sustains its crudest infliction. Indeed, 
we here behold him rising superior to the white man in 
consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes 3c 
to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former 
calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly 
endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding 
foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes 



336 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a pride in taunting his persecutors and provoking their 
ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey 
on his very vitals and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, 
he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance 

5 of an unconquered heart and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early 
historians have overshadowed the characters of the 
unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally 

10 break through which throw a degree of melancholy 
lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be 
met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, 
which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice 
and bigotry, yet speak for themselves, and will be dwelt 

15 on with applause and sympathy when prejudice shall 
have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the deso- 
lation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. 

20 Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis- 
criminate butchery. In one place we read of the sur- 
prisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams 
were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants 
shot down and slain in attempting to escape, "all being 

25 despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After 
a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the 
historian piously observes, " being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the 
unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and 

30 fortresses and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty 
but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod war- 
riors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a 
swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by 






TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 337 

despair, with hearts bursting with grief at the destruc- 
tion of their tribe and spirits galled and sore at the 
fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask 
their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred 
death to submission. 5 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their 
dismal retreat so as to render escape impracticable. 
Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all 
the time, by which means many were killed and buried 
in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the 10 
dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and 
escaped into the woods ; " the rest were left to the con- 
querors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like 
sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness 
and madness, sit still and be shot through or cut to 15 
pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke 
upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several 
heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they 
discharged their pieces laden with ten or twelve pistol 20 
bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under 
the boughs within a few yards of them; so as, besides 
those that were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by 
friend or foe." 25 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the 
loftiness of spirit that seemed to nerve the hearts of 
these self-taught heroes and to raise them above the 
instinctive feelings of human nature ? When the Gauls 30 
laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators 
clothed in their robes and seated with stern tranquil- 
lity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered 
death without resistance or even supplication. Such 



33S THE SKETCH BOOK 

conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnani- 
mous; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate 
and sullen ! How truly are we the dupes of show and 
circumstance ! How different is virtue clothed in purple 
5 and enthroned in state from virtue naked and destitute 
and perishing obscurely in a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
Eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests 
that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any 

10 traces remain of them in the thickly settled states of 
New England, excepting here and there the Indian 
name of a village or a stream. And such must, sooner 
or later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the 
frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from 

15 their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a 
little while, and they will go the way that their brethren 
have gone before. The few hordes which still linger 
about the shores of Huron and Superior and the tribu- 
tary streams of the Mississippi will share the fate of 

20 those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and 
Connecticut and lorded it along the proud banks of the 
Hudson, of that gigantic race said to have existed on 
the borders of the Susquehanna, and of those various 
nations that nourished about the Potomac and the Rap- 

25 pahannock, and that peopled the forests of the 

valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor 
from the face of the earth, their very history will be lost 
in forgetfulness, and "the places that now know them 
will know them no more forever." Or if, perchance, 

30 some dubious memorial of tneni should survive, it may 

be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in 

imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and 

;s of antiquity. But should he 

venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretch- 



Si 

t ib ode 
ranted 2 t beast 

the e -_ • ■ ■ - t SSE I ! .:.-..-.:' 

He : • . --. ■ 1 - . 

- . 7 from, -.::.- 

• • ■ m ■■--.-■ 

■ cr hatchet ------ 

■ . - - ■ : Ece meal - . - . - 12. - 

------ E9S - 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touch'd but never shook ; 
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who 
treated of the discovery and settlement of America have 
not given us more particular and candid accounts of 
the remarkable characters that nourished in savage life. 
5 The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full 
of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer 
glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a 
comparatively primitive state and what he owes to civi- 
lization. There is something of the charm of discovery 

10 in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of 
human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native 
growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those gen- 
erous and romantic qualities which have been artificially 
cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardi- 

15 hood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed 
almost the existence of man, depends so much upon the 
opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a 
studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native 

20 character are refined away or softened down by the 
levelling influence of what is termed good breeding; and 
340 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 341 

he practises so many petty deceptions and affects so 
many generous sentiments for the purposes of popular- 
ity that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his 
artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free 
from the restraints and refinements of polished life, and 5 
in a great degree a solitary and independent being, obeys 
the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his 
judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being 
freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society 
is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every 10 
bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by 
the smiling verdure of a velvet surface ; he, however, 
who would study nature in its wildness and variety must 
plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem 
the torrent and dare the precipice. 15 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a 
volume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, 
with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians and 
their wars with the settlers of New England. It is 
painful to perceive even from these partial narratives 20 
how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the 
blood of the aborigines, how easily the colonists were 
moved to hostility by the lust of conquest, how merci- 
less and exterminating was their warfare. The imagi- 
nation shrinks at the idea how many intellectual beings 25 
were hunted from the earth, how many brave and noble 
hearts of nature's sterling coinage were broken down 
and trampled in the dust! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior whose name was once a terror throughout Mas- 30 
sachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most dis- 
tinguished of a number of contemporary sachems who 
reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wam- 
panoags, and the other Eastern tribes, at the time of 



342 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the first settlement of New England; a band of native 
untaught heroes who made the most generous struggle 
of which human nature is capable, fighting to the last 
gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of 

5 victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic 
fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on 
the page of history, but stalk like gigantic shadows in 
the dim twilight of tradition. 1 

10 When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are 
called by their descendants, first took refuge on the 
shores of the New World from the religious persecutions 
of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy 
and disheartening. Few in number, and that number 

15 rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships, 
surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes, 
exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter and 
the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate, their minds 
were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- 

20 served them from sinking into despondency but the 
strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this for- 
lorn situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief 
sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief who 
reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of tak- 

25 ing advantage of the scanty number of the strangers and 
expelling them from his territories, into which they had 
intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a gen- 
erous friendship, and extended towards them the rites 
of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring 

30 to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a 
mere handful of followers, entered into a solemn league 

1 While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is 
informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic 
poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 343 

of peace and amity, sold them a portion of the soil, and 
promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage 
allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is 
certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit 
have never been impeached. He continued a firm and 5 
magnanimous friend of the white men, suffering them to 
extend their possessions and to strengthen themselves 
in the land, and betraying no jealousy of their increas- 
ing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he 
came once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexan- 10 
der, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace 
and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the reli- 
gion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the 
missionaries, and stipulated that no further attempt 15 
should be made to draw off his people from their ancient 
faith; but finding the English obstinately opposed to 
any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. 
Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, 
Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 20 
English), to the residence of a principal settler, recom- 
mending mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating 
that the same love and amity which had existed between 
the white men and himself might be continued afterwards 
with his children. The good old sachem died in peace 25 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow 
came upon his tribe; his children remained behind to 
experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was 
of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious 30 
of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive 
policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited 
his indignation, and he beheld with uneasiness their ex- 
terminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK 

doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of 
plotting with the Narragansetts to rise against the Eng- 
lish and drive them from the land. It is impossible to 
say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or 
5 was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, how- 
ever, by the violent and overbearing measures of the 
settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel con- 
scious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow 
harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. 

10 They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexan- 
der and to bring him before their courts. He was traced 
to his woodland haunts and surprised at a hunting 
house, where he was reposing with a band of his fol- 
lowers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The 

15 suddenness of his arrest and the outrage offered to his 
sovereign dignity so preyed upon the irascible feelings 
of this proud savage as to throw him into a raging fever. 
He was permitted to return home on condition of send- 
ing his son as a pledge for his reappearance; but the 

20 blow he had received was fatal, and before he had 
reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a 
wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers on account of his 

25 lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with 
his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him 
an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he 
was accused of having always cherished a secret and 
implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may very 

30 probably and very naturally have been the case. He 
considered them as originally but mere intruders into 
the country, who had presumed upon indulgence and 
were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He 
saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 345 

them from the face of the earth, their territories slipping 
from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scat- 
tered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil was 
originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not 
know the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods 5 
of colonization? The Europeans always made thrifty 
bargains through their superior adroitness in traffic, and 
they gained vast accessions of territory by easily pro- 
voked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a - 
nice inquirer into the refinements of law by which an 10 
injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading 
facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for 
Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Euro- 
peans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that 
now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their 15 
fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general 
hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment 
of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, 
renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided 20 
peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was 
called by the English, Mount Hope, 1 the ancient seat of 
dominion of his tribe. Suspicions-, however, which were 
at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form 
and substance ; and he was at length charged with 25 
attempting to instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise 
at once, and by a simultaneous effort to throw off the 
yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant 
period to assign the proper credit due to these early 
accusations against the Indians. There was a prone- 30 
ness to suspicion and an aptness to acts of violence 
on the part of the whites that gave weight and impor- 
tance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where 
1 Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK 

talebearing met with countenance and reward, and the 
sword was readily unsheathed when its success was cer- 
tain and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip 
5 is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, 
whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial 
education which he had received among the settlers. 
He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three 
'times with a facility that evinced the looseness of his 

10 principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's con- 
fidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his 
bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the 
clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he 
abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; and 

j- in order to gain their favor charged his former bene- 
factor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous 
investigation took place. Philip and several of his sub- 
jects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved 
against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too 

20 far to retract ; they had previously determined that 
Philip was a dangerous neighbor, they had publicly 
evinced their distrust, and had done enough to insure 
his hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual mode of 
reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become 

25 necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous 
informer, was shortly afterwards found dead in a pond, 
having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. 
Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor 
of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 

30 mony of one very questionable witness, were condemned 
and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious pun- 
ishment of his friend outraged the pride and exasperated 
the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 347 

at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, 
and he determined to trust himself no longer in the 
power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and 
broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and 
he had a further warning in the tragical story of Mian- 5 
tonimo, a great sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after 
manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the 
colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of con- 
spiracy and receiving assurances of amity, had been 
perfidiously despatched at their instigation. Philip, 10 
therefore, gathered his fighting men about him, per- 
suaded all strangers that he could to join his cause, sent 
the women and children to the Narragansetts for safety, 
and wherever he appeared was continually surrounded 
by armed warriors. 15 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust 
and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them 
in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their 
hands, grew mischievous and committed various petty 
depredations. In one of their maraudings a warrior 20 
was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the 
signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to re- 
venge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war 
resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 25' 
times we meet with many indications of the diseased 
state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstrac- 
tion, and the wildness of their situation among trackless 
forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to 
superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations 30 
with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. 
They were much given also to a belief in omens. The 
troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we 
are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which 



348 THE SKETCH BOOK 

forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form 
of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a "prodi- 
gious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other 
5 towns in their neighborhood " was heard the report of 
a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth 
and a considerable echo." 1 Others were alarmed on a 
still, sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and 
muskets, bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the 

10 noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass 
away to the westward ; others fancied that they heard 
the galloping of horses over their head ; and certain 
monstrous births which took place about the time filled 
the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 

15 Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena — to the northern lights 
which occur vividly in those latitudes, the meteors which 
explode in the air, the casual rushing of a blast through 
the top branches of the forest, the crash of fallen trees 

20 or disrupted rocks, and to those other uncouth sounds 
and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so 
strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland 
solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy 
imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love of 

25 the marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with 
which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
The universal currency of these superstitious fancies and 
the grave record made of them by one of the learned 
men of the day are strongly characteristic of the times. 

30 The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men 
and savages. On the part of the whites it was con- 
ducted with superior skill and success, but with a 
1 The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 349 

wastefulness of the blood and a disregard of the natural 
rights of their antagonists; on the part of the Indians 
it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of 
death, and who had nothing to expect from peace but 
humiliation, dependence, and decay. 5 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a 
worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror 
and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, 
however justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause 
the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is 10 
reviled as a murderer and a traitor, without considering 
that he was a true-born prince gallantly fighting at the 
head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family, 
to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to deliver 
his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 15 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, 
and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have 
been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere sue- 20 
cession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess 
of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passion- 
ate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive 
at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, 25 
a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and 
hardship, and an unconquerable resolution that com- 
mand our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 30 
forests that skirted the settlements and were almost 
impervious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. 
Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm 
accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 



350 THE SKETCH BOOK 

thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time 
and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay 
into the villages. There were now and then indications 
of these impending ravages that filled the minds of the 
5 colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a 
distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary 
woodland where there was known to be no white man ; 
the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would 
sometimes return home wounded ; or an Indian or two 

10 would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests 
and suddenly disappearing, as the lightning will some- 
times be seen playing silently about the edge of the 
cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by 

15 the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miracu- 
lously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, 
would be lost to all search or inquiry until he again 
emerged at some far-distant quarter, laying the country 
desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps 

20 or morasses which extend in some parts of New Eng- 
land, composed of loose bogs of deep black mud, per- 
plexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered 
and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed 
by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and 

25 the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them 
almost impracticable to the white man, though the 
Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of 
a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset 
Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his follow- 

30 ers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing 
to venture into these dark and frightful recesses where 
they might perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down 
by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance 
to the Neck and began to build a fort, with the thought 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 351 

of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in 
the dead of the night, leaving the women and children 
behind, and escaped away to the westward, kindling the 
flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and 5 
the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of 
Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exag- 
gerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in 10 
darkness, whose coming none could foresee, and against 
which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip 
seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever 
part of the widely extended frontier an irruption from 15 
the forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. 
Many superstitious notions also were circulated con- 
cerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy and 
to be attended by an old Indian witch, or prophetess, 
whom he consulted and who assisted him by her charms 20 
and incantations. This indeed was frequently the case 
with Indian chiefs, either through their own credulity 
or to act upon that of their followers ; and the influence 
of the prophet and dreamer over Indian superstition 
has been fully evidenced in recent instances of savage 25 
warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocas- 
set his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His 
forces had been thinned by repeated fights and he had 
lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of 30 
adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief 
sachem of all the Narragansetts. He was the son and 
heir of Miantonimo, the great sachem who, as already 
mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK 

conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the per- 
fidious instigations of the settlers. " He was the heir," 
says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and 
insolence, as well as of his malice towards the English " 

5 — he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, 
and the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he 
had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war, 
yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open 
arms, and gave them the most generous countenance 

10 and support. This at once drew upon him the hostility 
of the English, and it was determined to strike a signal 
blow that should involve both the sachems in one com- 
mon ruin. A great force was therefore gathered together 
from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 

15 was sent into the Narragansett country in the depth of 
winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, 
could be traversed with comparative facility and would 
no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to 
the Indians. 

20 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed 
the greater part of his stores, together with the old, the 
infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong 
fortress, where he and Philip had likewise drawn up 
the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the 

25 Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound, 
or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a 
swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment 
and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in 
Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius 

30 of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated 
through December snows to this stronghold and came 
upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and 
tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 353 

attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot 
down in the act of storming the fortress, sword in hand. 
The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodg- 
ment was effected. The Indians were driven from one 
post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 5 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their 
veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody 
battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviv- 
ing warriors, retreated from the fort and took refuge in 
the thickets of the surrounding forest. 10 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort, the 
whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the 
women, and the children perished in the flames. This 
last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. 
The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage 15 
and despair uttered by the fugitive warriors as they 
beheld the destruction of their dwellings and heard the 
agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. " The 
burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, 
"the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and 20 
the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible 
and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of 
the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds : "They 
were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously in- 
quired whether burning their enemies alive could be 25 
consistent with humanity and the benevolent principles 
of the Gospel." 1 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is 
worthy of particular mention ; the last scene of his life 
is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian 30 
magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause 
1 MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



354 THE SKETCH BOOK 

which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of 
peace offered on condition of betraying Philip and his 
followers, and declared that "he would fight it out to 
the last man rather than become a servant to the Eng- 

5 lish." His home being destroyed, his country harassed 
and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he 
was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Con- 
necticut, where he formed a rallying point to the whole 
body of Western Indians and laid waste several of the 

io English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expe- 
dition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to 
Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure 
seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This 

15 little band of adventurers had passed safely through the 
Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narra- 
gansett, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, 
when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. 
Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 

20 despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill 
to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English 
and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless 
terror past their chieftain without stopping to inform 

25 him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who 
did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that 
the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw 
there was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted 

30 to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon 
his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver- 
laced coat and belt of peag, — by which his enemies 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 355 

knew him to be Canonchet and redoubled the eager- 
ness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair that, as he after- 5 
wards confessed, "his heart and his bowels turned 
within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void 
of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized 
by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, 10 
he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of 
body and boldness of heart. But on being made pris- 
oner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him, and 
from that moment we find, in the anecdotes given by 
his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated 15 
and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of 
the English who first came up with him, and who had 
not attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted 
warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful 
countenance, replied : " You are a child — you cannot 20 
understand matters of war — let your brother or your 
chief come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, 
on condition of submitting with his nation to the Eng- 
lish, yet he rejected them with disdain and refused to 25 
send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his 
subjects, saying that he knew none of them would com- 
ply. Being reproached with his breach of faith towards 
the whites, his boast that he would not deliver up a 
Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail, and 30 
his threat that he would burn the English alive in their 
houses, he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answer- 
ing that others were as forward for the war as himself, 
and he desired " to hear no more thereof." 



356 THE SKETCH BOOK 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to 
his cause and his friend, might have touched the feel- 
ings of the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was 
an Indian, a being towards whom war had no courtesy, 
5 humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was 
condemned to die. The last words of him that are 
recorded are worthy the greatness of his soul. When 
sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed 
that he liked it well, for he should die before his heart 

10 was soft or he had spoken anything unworthy of him- 
self. His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for 
he was shot at Stoningham by three young sachems of 
his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narragansett fortress and the death 

15 of Canonchet were fatal blows to the fortunes of King 
Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head 
of war by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but 
though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his 

20 enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill 
began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. 
Some were suborned by the whites, others fell victims to 

25 hunger and fatigue and to the frequent attacks by which 
they were harassed. His stores were all captured, his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes, 
his uncle was shot down by his side, his sister was 
carried into captivity, and in one of his narrow escapes 

30 he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only 
son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the 
historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his misery 
was not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being him- 
self made acquainted with the sense and experimental 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 357 

feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, 
slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- 
tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts before 
his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own fol- 5 
lowers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing 
him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through 
treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the sub- 
jects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near 
kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed 10 
into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among 
them at the time and attempted to make her escape by 
crossing a neighboring river ; either exhausted by swim- 
ming or starved by cold and hunger, she was found dead 
and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased 15 
not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, 
where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was 
no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime 
was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. 
Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly 20 
vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and 
set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton to 
the view of her captive subjects. They immediately 
recognized the features of their unfortunate queen, and 
were so affected at this barbarous spectacle that, we 25 
are told, they broke forth into the "most horrible and 
diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the compli- 
cated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the 
treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and 30 
reduce him to despondency. It is said that "he never 
rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his de- 
signs." The spring of hope was broken, the ardor of 
enterprise was extinguished ; he looked around, and all 



358 THE SKETCH BOOK 

was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor 
any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty 
band of followers who still remained true to his desper- 
ate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the 

5 vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his 
fathers. Here he lurked about like a spectre among 
the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft 
of home, of family and friend. There needs no better 
picture of his destitute and piteous situation than that 

io furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler who is 
unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of 
the hapless warrior whom he reviles. "Philip," he 
says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by 
the English forces through the woods above a hundred 

15 miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his 
own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired with a 
few of his best friends into a swamp, which proved but 
a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death 
came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon 

20 him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 
sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture 
him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, 
brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquir- 

25 ing a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreari- 
ness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — 
crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed 
to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experi- 
ence a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of 

30 bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by 
misfortune, but great minds rise above it. The very 
idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he 
smote to death one of his followers who proposed an 
expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made 






PHILIP OF POKANOKET 359 

his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his 
chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were 
immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay 
crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was 
aware of their approach they had begun to surround 5 
him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest fol- 
lowers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he 
rushed forth from his covert and made a headlong 
attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by 
a renegado Indian of his own nation. 10 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate 
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- 
honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the 
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we 
may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty char- 15 
acter sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and 
respect for his memory. We find that amidst all the 
harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant war- 
fare he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love 
and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment 20 
of friendship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and 
only son " are mentioned with exultation as causing him 
poignant misery ; the death of any near friend is trium- 
phantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; 
but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers 25 
in whose affections he had confided is said to have deso- 
lated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further 
comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil 
— a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their 
wrongs — a soldier daring in battle, firm in adversity, 30 
patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had es- 
poused. Proud of heart and with an untamable love 
of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the 



360 THE SKETCH BOOK 

beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished 
recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his 
haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and 
despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. 

5 With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would 
have graced a civilized warrior and have rendered him 
the theme of the poet and historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went down like a 
lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest — 

10 without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly 
hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. fc 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English 
more excel than that which consists in caricaturing and 
giving ludicrous appellations or nicknames. In this 
way they have whimsically designated, not merely indi- 
viduals, but nations ; and in their fondness for pushing 5 
a joke they have not spared even themselves. One 
would think that in personifying itself a nation would 
be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and impos- 
ing; but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor of 
the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, 10 
and familiar, that they have embodied their national 
oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, 
with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, 
and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singu- 
lar delight in exhibiting their most private foibles in a 15 
laughable point of view; and have been so successful 
in their delineations that there is scarcely a being in 
actual existence more absolutely present to the public 
mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 20 
thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the 

361 



362 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nation, and thus to give reality to what at first may- 
have been painted in a great measure from the imagina- 
tion. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are 
continually ascribed to them. The common orders of 

5 English seem wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal 
which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to 
act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and 

10 this I have especially noticed among those truly home- 
bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated 
beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should 
be a little uncouth in speech and apt to utter imperti- 
nent truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull and 

15 always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into 
an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he ob- 
serves that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then 
his passion is over in a moment and he bears no malice. 
If he betrays a coarseness of taste and an insensibility 

20 to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his igno- 
rance — he is a plain John Bull and has no relish for 
frippery and knickknacks. His very proneness to be 
gulled by strangers and to pay extravagantly for ab- 
surdities, is excused under the plea of munificence — 

25 for John is always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive 
to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly con- 
vict himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. 
However little, therefore, the character may have 

30 suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted 
itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted them- 
selves to each other ; and a stranger who wishes to 
study English peculiarities may gather much valuable 
information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull 






JOHN BULL 363 

as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. 
Still, however, he, is one of those fertile humorists that 
are continually throwing out new portraits and present- 
ing different aspects from different points of view ; and, 
often as he has been described, I cannot resist the temp- 5 
tation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has 
met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, 
matter-of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about 
him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his 10 
nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He 
excels in humor more than in wit, is jolly rather than 
gay, melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be 
moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad 
laugh; but he loathes sentiment and has no turn for 15 
light pleasantry. He is a boon companion if you allow 
him to have his humor and to talk about himself ; and 
he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and 
purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propen- 20 
sity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded 
personage, who thinks not merely for himself and fam- 
ily, but for all the country round, and is most generously 
disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continu- 
ally volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' 25 
affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in 
any matter of consequence without asking his advice, 
though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the 
kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. 30 
He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble sci- 
ence of defence, and having accomplished himself in 
the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a 
perfect master at boxing and cudgel play, he has had 



364 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot hear of 
a quarrel between the most distant o£ his neighbors but 
he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his 
cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
5 not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, 
he has extended his relations of pride and policy so 
completely over the whole country that no event can 
take place without infringing some of his finely spun 
rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, 

io with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, 
he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider who has 
woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly can- 
not buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his repose 
and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his den. 

15 Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fel- 
low at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the 
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, how- 
ever, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; 
he always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out 

20 of it grumbling even when victorious ; and though no 
one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested 
point, yet when the battle is over and he comes to the 
reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere 
shaking of hands that he is apt to. let his antagonist 

25 pocket all that they have been quarrelling about. It is 
not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on 
his guard against as making friends. It is difficult to 
cudgel him out of a farthing, but, put him in good humor, 
and you may bargain him out of all the money in his 

30 pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather the 
roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard 
in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad, of 
pulling out a long purse, flinging his money bravely 



JOHN BULL 365 

about at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and 
carrying a high head among " gentlemen of the fancy " ; 
but immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, 
he will be taken with violent qualms of economy, stop 
short at the most trivial expenditure, talk desperately 5 
of being ruined and brought upon the parish, and in 
such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill 
without violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most 
punctual and discontented paymaster in the world ; 
drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite 10 
reluctance, paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom- 
panying every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bounti- 
ful provider and a hospitable housekeeper. His econ- 
omy is a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise 15 
how he may afford to be extravagant ; for he will be- 
grudge himself a beefsteak and a pint of port one day, 
that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of 
ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive ; 20 
not so much from any great outward parade as from the 
great consumption of solid beef and pudding, the vast 
number of followers he feeds and clothes, and his singu- 
lar disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is 
a most kind and indulgent master, and provided his ser- 25 
vants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little 
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every- 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. 
His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and 30 
have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and 
prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house- 
dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark 
at a house-breaker. 



366 THE SKETCH BOOK 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, 
gray with age, and of a most venerable though weather- 
beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular 
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts erected in vari- 
5 ous tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of 
Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone 
and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of 
that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, 
and dusky chambers ; and though these have been par- 

io tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many 
places where you must still grope in the dark. Addi- 
tions have been made to the original edifice from time 
to time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers 
and battlements have been erected during wars and 

15 tumults, wings built in time of peace, and outhouses, 
lodges, and offices run up according to the whim or con- 
venience of different generations, until it has become one 
of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. 
An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a 

20 reverend pile that must have been exceedingly sumptu- 
ous, and indeed in spite of having been altered and 
simplified at various periods has still a look of solemn 
religious pomp. Its walls within are stored with the 
monuments of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted 

25 up with soft cushions and 'well-lined chairs, where such 
of his family as are inclined to church services may doze 
comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; 
but he is staunch in his religion and piqued in his zeal, 

30 from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels 
have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his 
neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong 
papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains at a large 



JOHX BULL 367 

expense a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a 
most learned and decorous personage and a truly well- 
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in 
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use 5 
in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their 
prayers, and. above all, to pay their rents punctually and 
without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy and often inconvenient, but full of the 10 
solemn magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massive, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample 
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of 15 
yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor-house 
is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of 
rooms apparently deserted and time-worn, and towers 
and turrets that are tottering to decay, so that in high 
winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears 20 
of the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old 
edifice thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the 
useless parts pulled down, and the others strengthened 
with their materials ; but the old gentleman always grows 25 
testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excel- 
lent house, that it is tight and weatherproof, and not to 
be shaken by tempests : that it has stood for several hun- 
dred years, and therefore is not likely to tumble down 
now ; that as to its being inconvenient, his family is 30 
accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be 
comfortable without them ; that as to its unwieldy size 
and irregular construction, these result from its being 
the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wis- 



368 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dom of every generation ; that an old family like his 
requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families 
may live in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old 
English family should inhabit an old English manor- 
5 house. If you point out any part of the building as 
superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength 
or decoration of the rest and the harmony of the whole, 
and swears that the parts are so built into each other 
that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having the 

10 whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dis- 
position to protect anch patronize. He thinks it indispen- 
sable to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family to 
be bounteous in its appointments and to be eaten up by 

15 dependents ; and so, partly from pride and partly from 
kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter 
and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old 

20 retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style 
which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great 
hospital of invalids, and with all its magnitude is not 
a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or 
corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 

25 Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and re- 
tired heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen loll- 
ing about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under 
its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its 
doors. Every office and outhouse is garrisoned by these 

30 supernumeraries and their families, for they are amaz- 
ingly prolific, and when they die off are sure to leave 
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or 



JOHN BULL 369 

loophole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, 
who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes 
the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof 
from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. 
This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can 5 
withstand, so that a man who has faithfully eaten his 
beef and pudding all his life is sure to be rewarded with 
a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 10 
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a 
worthy example of grateful recollection, which if some 
of his neighbors were to imitate would not be to their 
discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to 
point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on 15 
their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast 
with some little vainglory of the perilous adventures and 
hardy exploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for 
family usages and family incumbrances to a whimsical 20 
extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gypsies, yet 
he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they 
have infested the place time out of mind, and been 
regular poachers upon every generation of the family. 
He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from 25 
the great trees that surround the house, lest it should 
molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote, but they 
are hereditary owls and must not be disturbed. Swal- 
lows have nearly choked up every chimney with their 30 
nests, martins build in every frieze and cornice, crows 
nutter about the towers and perch on every weather- 
cock, and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house running in and out of their holes 



370 THE SKETCH BOOK 

undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such 
a reverence for everything that has been long in the 
family that he will not hear even of abuses being re- 
formed, because they are good old family abuses. 
5 All those whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse, and as he prides him- 
self on punctuality in money matters and wishes to 
maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have 
caused him great perplexity in meeting his engage- 

10 ments. This, too, has been increased by the alterca- 
tions and heart-burnings which are continually taking 
place in his family. His children have been brought 
up to different callings and are of different ways of 
thinking, and as they have always been allowed to 

15 speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise 
the privilege most clamorously in the present posture 
of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the 
race, and are clear that the old establishment should 
be kept up in all its state, whatever may be the cost ; 

20 others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat 
the old gentleman to retrench his expenses and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
footing. He has, indeed, at times seemed inclined to 
listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice has 

25 been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct 
of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow 
of rather low habits, who neglects his business to fre- 
quent alehouses, is the orator of village clubs, and a 
complete oracle among the poorest of his father's ten- 

30 ants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers 
mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for 
an overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing 
can stop it. He rants about the room, hectors the old 



JOHN BULL 371 

man about his spendthrift practices, ridicules his tastes 
and pursuits, insists that he shall turn the old servants 
out of doors, give the broken-down horses to the hounds, 
send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher 
in his place ; nay, that the whole family mansion shall 5 
be levelled with the ground, and a plain one of brick 
and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social 
entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away 
growling to the alehouse whenever an equipage drives 
up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the 10 
emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend 
all his pocket money in these tavern convocations, and 
even runs up scores for the liquor over which he preaches 
about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 15 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He 
has become so irritable from repeated crossings that the 
mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for 
a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the 
latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal disci- 20 
pline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they 
have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times 
run so high that John is fain to call in the aid of his 
son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at 
present living at home on half-pay. This last is sure to 25 
stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong, likes nothing 
so much as a racketing, roystering life, and is ready at a 
wink or nod to out sabre and flourish it over the orator's 
head, if he dares to array himself against paternal 
authority. 30 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, 
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. 
People begin to look wise and shake their heads when- 
ever his affairs are mentioned. They all hope that 



372 THE SKETCH BOOK 

matters are not so bad with him as represented, but 
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extrava- 
gance, things must be badly managed. They understand 
he is mortgaged over head and ears and is continually 
5 dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open- 
handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too 
fast ; indeed, they never knew any good come of this 
fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fight- 
ing. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one and 

10 has been in the family a long time, but for all that they 
have known many finer estates come to the hammer. 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the 
poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corpora- 

15 tion and smug rosy face which he used to present, he 
has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost- 
bitten apple. His scarlet, gold-laced waistcoat, which 
bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when 
he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him 

20 like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all 
in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to 
hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once 
sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- 

25 cornered hat on one side, flourishing his cudgel and 
bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump 
upon the ground, looking every one sturdily in the face, 
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song, 
he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, 

30 with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his 
arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches 
pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet 
for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant 



JOHN BULL 373 

as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy 
or concern, he takes fire in an instant, swears that 
he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the country, 
talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy 
another estate, and, with a valiant swagger and grasping 5 
of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at 
quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in 
all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation 
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd 10 
humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted 
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow 
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as 
his neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his 
own — all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very 15 
faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His 
extravagance savors of his generosity, his quarrelsome- 
ness of his courage, his credulity of his open faith, his 
vanity of his pride, and his bluntness of his sincerity. 
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal char- 20 
acter. He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound 
and solid within ; whose bark abounds with excrescences 
in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; 
and whose branches make a fearful groaning and mur- 
muring in the least storm, from their very magnitude 25 
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appear- 
ance of his old family mansion that is extremely poet- 
ical and picturesque ; and as long as it can be rendered 
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it 
meddled with during the present conflict of tastes and 30 
opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good archi- 
tects that might be of service, but many, I fear, are 
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work 
with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would 



374 THE SKETCH BOOK 

never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and 
perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I 
wish is, that John's present troubles may teach him more 
prudence in future ; that he may cease to distress his 

5 mind about other people's affairs ; that he may give up 
the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neigh- 
bors and the peace and happiness of the world by dint 
of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home, 
gradually get his house into repair, cultivate his rich 

o estate according to his fancy, husband his income — if 
he thinks proper, bring his unruly children into order — 
if he can, renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity, 
and long enjoy on his paternal lands a green, an honor- 
able, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the 
remote counties of England, I had struck into one of 
those cross-roads that lead through the more secluded 
parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a 
village, the situation of which was beautifully rural and 5 
retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about 
its inhabitants not to be found in the villages which lie 
on the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night 
there, and having taken an early dinner, strolled out to 
enjoy the neighboring scenery. 10 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance 
from the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curi- 
osity, its old tower being completely overrun with ivy, 
so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle 15 
of gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament peered 
through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. 
The early part of the day had been dark and showery, 
but in the afternoon it had cleared up, and though sul- 
len clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad 20 
tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves and lit up all 
nature with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the 

375 



376 THE SKETCH BOOK 

parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins 
and sorrows of the world, and giving in the serenity of 
his decline an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 
I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone and 
5 was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted 
hour, on past scenes and early friends, — on those who 
were distant and those who were dead, — and indulging 
in that kind of melancholy fancying which has in it some- 
thing sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then 

10 the stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on 
my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, and, 
instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it 
was some time before I recollected that it must be tolling 
the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

15 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the vil- 
lage green ; it wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and 
reappeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it 
passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was sup- 
ported by young girls dressed in white ; and another, 

20 about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a 
chaplet of white flowers, a token that the deceased was 
a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed 
by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the 
better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 

25 his feelings, but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and 
deeply furrowed face showed the struggle that was pass- 
ing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 

30 placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flow- 
ers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat 
which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the 
funeral service, — for who is so fortunate as never to have 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 377 

followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? — but when 
performed over the remains of innocence and beauty 
thus laid low in the bloom of existence, what can be 
more affecting? At that simple but most solemn con- 
signment of the body to the grave, " Earth to earth, 5 
ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the tears of the youth- 
ful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. 
The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, 
and to' comfort himself with the assurance that the dead 
are blessed which die in the Lord; but the mother only 10 
thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down 
and withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she w r as like 
Rachel, "mourning over her children, and would not be 
comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of 15 
the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has 
often been told. She had been the beauty and pride 
of the village. Her father had once been an opulent 
farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This w r as 
an only child, and brought up entirely at home in the 20 
simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of 
the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. 
The good man watched over her education with pater- 
nal care. It was limited, and suitable to the sphere in 
which she was to move ; for he only sought to make her 25 
an ornament to her station in life, not to raise her above 
it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents and 
the exemption from all ordinary occupations had fos- 
tered a natural grace and delicacy of character that 
accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She 30 
appeared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming 
accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowl- 
edged by her companions, but without envy ; for it was 



378 THE SKETCH BOOK 

surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning 
kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her: 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems 
5 But smacks of something greater than herself, 

Too noble for tnis place. 

The village was one of those sequestered spots which 
still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It 
had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still 

10 kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites 
of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its pres- 
ent pastor, who was a lover of old customs and one of 
those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled 
by promoting joy on earth and good-will among man- 

15 kind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year 
to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day 
it was decorated with garlands and streamers, and a 
queen, or lady, of the May was appointed, as in former 
times, to preside at the sports and distribute the prizes 

20 and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village 
and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes would often at- 
tract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on 
one May-day, was a young officer whose regiment had 
been recently quartered in the neighborhood. He was 

25 charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village 
pageant, but above all with the dawning loveliness of 
the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all 
the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. 

30 The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to 
make her acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into 
her intimacy, and paid his court to her in that unthink- 
ing way in which young officers are too apt to trifle 
with rustic simplicity. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 379 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love ; but there are modes of 
making it more eloquent than language, and which con- 
vey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam 
of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses 5 
which emanate from every word and look and action — 
these form the true eloquence of love, and can always 
be felt and understood, but never described. Can we 
wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, 
guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost 10 
unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the grow- 
ing passion that was absorbing every thought and feel- 
ing, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, 
looked not to the future. When present, his looks and 
words occupied her whole attention; when absent, she 15 
thought but of what had passed at their recent inter- 
view. She would wander with him through the green 
lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her 
to see new beauties in nature, he talked in the language 
of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear 20 
the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between 
the sexes more pure than this innocent girl's. The gal- 
lant figure of her youthful admirer and the splendor of 
his military attire might at first have charmed her eye, 25 
but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her 
attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked 
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in 
his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate 
and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 30 
tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc- 
tions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was 
the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, 
from those of the rustic society to which she had been 



380 THE SKETCH BOOK 

accustomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She 
would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast 
look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle 
with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance 
5 of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and 
she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned, but his passion 
was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had 

10 begun the connection in levity, for he had often heard 
his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and 
thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his repu- 
tation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful 
fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently 

15 cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life; 
it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle, 
and before he was aware of the nature of his situation 
he became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles 

20 which so incessantly occur in these heedless attach- 
ments. His rank in life, the prejudices of titled con- 
nections, his dependence upon a proud and unyielding 
father, — all forbade him to think of matrimony; but 
when he looked down upon this innocent being, so ten- 

25 der and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, 
a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in 
her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In 
vain did he try to fortify himself by a thousand heart- 
less examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of 

30 generous sentiment with that cold, derisive levity with 
which he had heard them talk of female virtue ; when- 
ever he came into her presence, she was still surrounded 
by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity 
in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 381 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to 
repair to the Continent completed the confusion of his 
mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the 
most painful irresolution ; he hesitated to communicate 
the tidings until the day for marching was at hand, 5 
when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an 
evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she 
looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, 10 
and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He 
drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her 
soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, for there 
are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness which 
hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally 15 
impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding 
in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, and 
the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to over- 
whelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose that 
she should leave her home and be the companion of 20 
his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind 
was his intended victim that she was at first at a loss to 
comprehend his meaning, and why she should leave her 25 
native village and the humble roof of her parents. When 
at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure 
mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — she 
did not break forth into reproach — she said not a word 
— but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave 30 
him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul, 
and, clasping her hands in agony, fled as if for refuge 
to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and re- 



382 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pentant. It is uncertain what might have been the 
result of the conflict of his feelings had not his thoughts 
been diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, 
new pleasures, and new companions soon dissipated his 

5 self-reproach and stifled his tenderness ; yet amidst the 
stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would 
sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and 
village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath 

10 along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and 
the little village maid loitering along it leaning on his 
arm and listening to him with eyes beaming with un- 
conscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received in the 

15 destruction of all her ideal world had indeed been cruel. 
Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining mel- 
ancholy. She had beheld from her window the march 
of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless 

20 lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of 
drum and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained 
a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glit- 
tered about his figure and his plume waved in the 
breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision from her 

25 sight and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her 
after story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. 
She avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks 
she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, 

30 like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, 
and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her 
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening 
sitting in the porch of the village church, and the milk- 
maids returning from the fields would now and then 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 383 

overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the haw- 
thorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at 
church ; and as the old people saw her approach, so 
wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom and that hal- 
lowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, 5 
they would make way for her as for something spiritual, 
and looking after her would shake their heads in gloomy 
foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the 
tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The 10 
silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, 
and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. 
If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment 
against her lover, it was extinguished. She was inca- 
pable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened 15 
tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
couched in the simplest language, but touching from its 
very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and 
did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. 
She even depicted the sufferings which she had experi- 20 
enced, but concluded with saying that she could not die 
in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness and her 
blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined ; she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 25 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment 
to sit all clay and look out upon the landscape. Still 
she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one the 
malady that was preying on her heart. She never even 
mentioned her lover's name, but would lay her head on 30 
her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor 
parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blossom 
of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might 
again revive to freshness and that the bright unearthly 



384 THE SKETCH BOOK 

bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might be the 
promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday- 
afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice 
5 was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought 
with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which 
her own hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the 
Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of 

10 the joys of heaven ; it seemed to have diffused comfort 
and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on 
the distant village church ; the bell had tolled for the 
evening service, the last villager was lagging into the 
porch, and everything had sunk into that hallowed still- 

15 ness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were 
gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sor- 
row, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given 
to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled 
in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless 

20 lover ? Or were her thoughts wandering to that distant 
churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered ? 
Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman 
galloped to v the cottage — he dismounted before the win- 
dow — the poor girl gave a faint exclamation and sunk 

25 back in her chair. It was her repentant lover ! He 
rushed into the house and flew to clasp her to his 
bosom ; but her wasted form — her deathlike counte- 
nance — so wan, and yet so lovely in its desolation — 
smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony 

30 at her feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted 
to extend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if 
she spoke, but no word was articulated — she looked 
down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness 
— and closed her eyes forever ! 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 385 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this vil- 
lage story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious 
have little novelty to recommend them. In the present 
rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narra- 
tive they may appear trite and insignificant, but they 5 
interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in con- 
nection with the affecting ceremony which I had just 
witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than 
many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have 
passed through the place since and visited the church 10 
again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was 
a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foli- 
age, the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the 
wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, 
however, had been planted about the grave of the vil- 15 
lage favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the 
turf uninjured. 

The church door was open and I stepped in. There 
hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the 
day of the funeral. The flowers were withered, it is true, 20 
but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should 
soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments 
where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sym- 
pathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that 
spoke more touchingly to my heart than this simple but 25 
delicate memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to 
run away from his family and betake himself to a sea- 
faring life from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; 
and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy 
5 gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral 
streams with angle rods in hand may trace the origin 
of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
Walton. I recollect studying his Complete Angler several 
years since, in company with a knot of friends in Amer- 

10 ica, and moreover that we were all completely bitten with 
the angling mania. It was early in the year ; but as 
soon as the weather was auspicious and that the spring 
began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in 
hand and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was 

15 ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness 
of his equipments, being attired cap-a-pie for the enter- 
prise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat perplexed 
with half a hundred pockets, a pair of stout shoes and 

20 leathern gaiters, a basket slung on one side for fish, a 
patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other incon- 
veniences only to be found in the true angler's armory. 
386 



THE AXGLER 3S7 

Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of 
La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay w r as along a mountain brook among 5 
the highlands of the Hudson, a most unfortunate place 
for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had 
been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English 
rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish 
among our romantic solitudes unheeded beauties enough 10 
to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. 
Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making 
small cascades over which the trees threw their broad 
balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in 
fringes from the impending banks, dripping with dia- 15 
mond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along 
a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it w-ith 
murmurs, and after this termagant career would steal 
forth into open day with the most placid demure face 
imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a 20 
housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill- 
humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming and 
courtesying and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such 
times through some bosom of green meadow-land among 25 
the mountains, where the quiet w T as only interrupted by 
the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle 
among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe 
from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of 30 
sport that required either patience or adroitness, and 
had not angled above half an hour before I had com- 
pletely "satisfied the sentiment" and convinced myself 
of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is 



388 THE SKETCH BOOK 

something like poetry — a man must be born to it. I 
hooked myself instead of the fish, tangled my line in 
every tree, lost my bait, broke my rod, until I gave up 
the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the 
5 trees reading old Izaak, satisfied that it was his fasci- 
nating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that 
had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. 
My companions, however, were more persevering in 
their delusion. I have them at this moment before my 

10 eyes, stealing along the border of the brook where it lay 
open to the day or was merely fringed by shrubs and 
bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as 
they break in upon his rarely invaded haunt, the king- 
fisher watching them suspiciously from his dry tree that 

15 overhangs the deep, black mill pond in the gorge of the 
hills, the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off 
the stone or log on which he is 9tmning himself, and 
the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they ap- 
proach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery 

20 world around. 

I recollect also that after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a 
lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with 

25 a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of 
twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, a crooked 
pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, and in 
half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
throughout the day ! 

30 But above all I recollect the "good, honest, whole- 
some, hungry " repast which we made under a beech 
tree, just by a spring of pure, sweet water that stole out 
of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of 
the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk- 



THE ANGLER 389 

maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a 
bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. All this may 
appear like mere egotism, yet I cannot refrain from 
uttering these recollections which are passing like a strain 
of music over my mind and have been called up by an 5 
agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 
hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was 
attracted to a group seated on the margin. On ap- 10 
proaching I found it to consist of a veteran angler and 
two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow 
with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very 
carefully patched, betokening poverty honestly come by 
and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of 15 
former storms but present fair weather, its furrows had 
been worn into an habitual smile, his iron-gray locks 
hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good- 
humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was 
disposed to take the world as it went. One of his com- 20 
panions was a ragged wight with the skulking look of 
an arrant poacher, and I '11 warrant could find his way 
to any gentleman's fish pond in the neighborhood in the 
darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward country 
lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of 25 
a rustic beau. The old man was busy in examining the 
maw of a trout which he had just killed to discover by 
its contents what insects were seasonable for bait, and 
was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who 
appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a 30 
kind feeling towards all "brothers of the angle" ever 
since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, 
of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit," and my esteem 
for them has been increased since I met with an old 



390 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Tretyse of Fishing with the Angle, in which are set forth 
many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. 
"Take good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, 
"that in going about your disportes ye open no man's 
5 gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not 
use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to 
the encreasing and sparing of your money only, but 
principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of 
your body and specyally of your soule." 1 

10 I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read, and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that 
quite drew me towards him. I could not but remark 
the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part 

15 of the brook to another, waving his rod in the air to 
keep the line from dragging on the ground or catching 
among the bushes, and the adroitness with which he 
would throw his fly to any particular place, sometimes 
skimming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes cast- 

20 ing it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted 
root or overhanging bank in which the large trout are 
apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving instruc- 
tions to his two disciples, showing them the manner in 
which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and 

25 play them along the surface of the stream. The scene 
brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Pis- 
cator to his scholar. The country round was of that 

1 From this same treatise it would appear that angling is a more 
industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. 
— " For. when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye 
will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you 
of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge 
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall 
eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall 
cause to induce man to many other vices as it is right well known." 



THE ANGLER 391 

pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It 
was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the 
beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior 
Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling 
meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, 5 
was mild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-drop- 
ping shower that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 
I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost 10 
the whole day, wandering along the banks of the stream 
and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, 
having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age, and I 
fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now 15 
and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly 
in Savannah, where he had entered into trade and had 
been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had 20 
afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life, until 
he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by 
a cannon-ball at the Battle of Camperdown. This was 
the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever expe- 
rienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with 25 
some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue 
of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native 
village, where he lived quietly and independently, and 
devoted the remainder of his life to the " noble art of 
angling." 30 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 
he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 
prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buf- 
feted about the world, he was satisfied that the world in 



392 THE SKETCH BOOK 

itself was good and beautiful. Though he had been as 
roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that 
is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of 
every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to 
5 look only on the good side of things ; and, above all, 
he was almost the only man I had ever met with who 
had been an unfortunate adventurer in America and 
had honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault 
to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad 

10 that was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son 
and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the vil- 
lage inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and 
much courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of 
the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the 

15 old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in 
the taproom, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free 
of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling (if we could 
forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and 

20 tortures inflicted on worms and insects) that tends to 
produce a gentleness of spirit and a pure serenity of 
mind. As the English are methodical even in their 
recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it 
has been reduced among them to perfect rule and sys- 

25 tem. Indeed it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to 
the mild and highly cultivated scenery of England, where 
every roughness has been softened away from the land- 
scape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid 
streams which wander like veins of silver through the 

30 bosom of this beautiful country, leading one through 
a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding 
through ornamented grounds, sometimes brimming along 
through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 
with sweet smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in 



THE ANGLER 393 

sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capri- 
ciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness 
and serenity of nature and the quiet watchfulness of 
the sport gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing, 
which are now and then agreeably interrupted by the 5 
song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or 
perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still 
water and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. 
"When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, 
" and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and 10 
providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows 
by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies 
that take no care, and those very many other little living 
creatures that are not only created, but fed — man 
knows not how — by the goodness of the God of nature, 15 
and therefore trust in Him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit : 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 20 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 25 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 30 

And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. 1 

1 J. Davors, 



394 THE SKETCH BOOK 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his 
place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood 
of the village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curi- 
osity to seek him out. I found him living in a small 
5 cottage containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity 
in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of 
the village on a green bank, a little back from the road, 
with a small garden in front stocked with kitchen herbs 
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the 

io cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top 
was a ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted 
up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and 
convenience having been acquired on the berth deck of 
a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, 

15 which in the daytime was lashed up so as to take but 
little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a 
model of a ship of his own workmanship. Two or three 
chairs, a table, and a large sea chest formed the prin- 
cipal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval 

20 ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the 
Downs, and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures 
of sea fights, among which the battle of Camperdown 
held a distinguished place. The mantelpiece was dec- 
orated with sea shells, over which hung a quadrant 

25 flanked by two wood cuts of most bitter looking naval 
commanders. His implements for angling were carefully 
disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf 
was arranged his library, containing a work on angling 
much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume 

30 or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of 
songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed and edu- 
cated himself in the course of one of his voyages, and 



THE ANGLER 395 

which uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse 
brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establish- 
ment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
Crusoe. It was kept in neat order, everything being 
" stowed away " with the regularity of a ship of war ; 5 
and he informed me that he scoured the deck every 
morning, and swept it between meals. 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smok- 
ing his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was 
purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describ- 10 
ing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung 
in the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, 
and gave me a history of his sport with as much minute- 
ness as a general would talk over a campaign, being par- 
ticularly animated in relating the manner in which he 15 
had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all 
his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy 
to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented 
old age, and to behold a poor fellow like this, after being 20 
tempest-tossed through life, safely moored in a snug 
and quiet harbor in the evening of his days ! His hap- 
piness, however, sprung from within himself, and was 
independent of external circumstances, for he had that 
inexhaustible good-nature which is the most precious 25 
gift of Heaven, spreading itself like oil over the troubled 
sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable 
in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was 
a universal favorite in the village and the oracle of the 30 
taproom, where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of 
strange lands and shipwrecks and sea fights. He was 
much noticed, too, by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigh- 



396 THE SKETCH BOOK 

borhood, had taught several of them the art of angling, 
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The 
whole tenor of his life was quiet and -inoffensive, being 
principally passed about the neighboring streams when 
5 the weather and season were favorable, and at other 
times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing 
tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, 
nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils among the 
gentry. 

io He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, 
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He 
had made it his particular request that when he died he 
should be buried in a green spot which he could see 
from his seat in church, and which he had marked out 

iS ever since he was a boy, and had thought of. when far 
from home on the raging sea in danger of being food for 
the fishes ; it was the spot where his father and mother 
had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing 

20 weary ; but I could not refrain from drawing the picture 
of this worthy "brother of the angle," who has made me 
more than ever in love with the theory, though I fear 
I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art ; and 
I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of 

25 honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. 
Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
true lovers of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, 
and be quiet, and go a angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 

For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru- 
dently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. 5 
Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market 
town or rural port which by some is called Greensburgh, 
but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry town. This name was given, we are 
told, in former days by the good housewives of the 10 
adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their 
husbands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, 
but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise 
and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 15 
two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, 
among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in 
the whole world. A small brook glides through it with 
just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occa- 
sional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is 20 
almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uni- 
form tranquillity. 

397 



398 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I recollect that when a stripling my first exploit in 
squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it 
at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
5 startled by the roar of my own gun as it broke the Sabbath 
stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by 
the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat 
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions 
and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 

io know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has 
long been known by the name of " Sleepy Hollow," and 

15 its rustic lads are called the "Sleepy Hollow Boys" 
throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, 
dreamy influence seems to hang over the land and to 
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place 
was bewitched by a high German doctor during the 

20 early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Indian 
chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow- 
wows there before the country was discovered by Master 
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still con- 
tinues under the sway of some witching power that 

25 holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing 
them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given 
to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances 
and visions, and frequently see strange sights and hear 
music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood 

30 abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight 
superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener 
across the valley than in any other part of the country, 
and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to 
make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 399 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of 
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 
ghost of a Hessian trooper whose head had been carried 5 
away by a cannon ball in some nameless battle during 
the revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by 
the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, 
as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not con- 
fined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 10 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic 
historians of those parts, who have been careful in col- 
lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been 15 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the 
scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that 
the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along 
the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being 
belated and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard 20 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 
tion which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
in that region of shadows, and the spectre is known at 
all the country firesides by the name of the Headless 25 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of 
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 
resides there for a time. However wide-awake they may 30 
have been before they entered that sleepy region, they 
are sure in a little time to inhale the witching influence 
of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream 
dreams and see apparitions. 



400 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
and there embosomed in the great State of New York, 
that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, 
5 while' the great torrent of migration and improvement, 
which is making such incessant changes in other parts 
of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
They are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and 

10 bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in 
their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the 
passing current. Though many years have elapsed since 
I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I ques- I 
tion whether I should not still find the same trees and / 

15 the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode in a remote 
period of American history, — that is to say, some thirty 
years since, — a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 
Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," 

20 in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the chil- 
dren of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a 
state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the 
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. 

25 The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his 
person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile 
out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shov- 
els, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. 

30 His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that 
it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle 
neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him strid- 
ing along the profile of a hill on a windy day with his 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 401 

clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might 
have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending 
upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a corn- 
field. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, 5 
rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed 
and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It 
was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door and stakes set against 
the window shutters ; so that, though a thief might get 10 
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment 
in getting out — an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an 
eel pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation just at the foot of a woody hill, with 15 
a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree 
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur 
of his pupils' voices conning over their lessons might be 
heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee- 
hive, interrupted now and then by the authoritative 20 
voice of the master in the tone of menace or command ; 
or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as 
he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of 
knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, 
and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod 25 
and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly / 
were not spoiled. / 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in 
the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he adminis- 30 
tered justice with discrimination rather than severity, 
taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying 
it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling 
that winced at the least flourish of the rod was passed 



402 THE SKETCH BOOK 

by with indulgence, but the claims of justice were satis- 
fied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough, 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled, and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
5 birch. All this he called doing his duty by their 
parents ; and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that he would remember it and thank 
him for it the longest day he had to live. 

10 When school hours were over he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys, and on holiday 
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives 
for mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. In- 

15 deed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, 
and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, — for he was a huge feeder, and though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda, — but to 

20 help out his maintenance he was, according to country 
custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses 
of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these 
he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood with all his worldly effects 

25 tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses 
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs 
of schooling a grievous burden and schoolmasters as 
mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself 

30 both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers 
occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped 
to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to 
water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for 
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant 



THE LEGEXD OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 403 

dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his 
little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle 
and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the 
mothers by petting the children, particularly the young- 
est : and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnani- 5 
mously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on 
one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours 
together. 

In addition to his other vocations he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 10 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays to 
take his station in front of the church gallery with a 
band of chosen singers, where in his own mind he com- 
pletely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain 15 
it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be heard half 
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on 
a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately 20 
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which is 
commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of 25 
headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood, beins: 
considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of 
vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough 30 
country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to 
the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occa- 
sion some little stir at the tea table of a farmhouse and 
the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 



404 THE SKETCH BOOK 

meats, or peradventure the parade of a silver teapot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in 
the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would 
figure among them in the churchyard between services 
5 on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild 
vines that overrun the surrounding trees, reciting for 
their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or 
sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks 
of the adjacent mill pond, while the more bashful coun- 

10 try bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was 

15 always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 
esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a per- 
fect master of Cotton Mather's History of New E?igland 
Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and 

20 potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous 
and his powers of digesting jit were equally extraordi- 
nary, and both had been increased by his residence in 

25 this spellbound region. No tale was - too gross or mon- 
strous for his capacious swallow. It was often his de- 
light, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the 
little brook that whimpered 1 by his schoolhouse, and 

30 there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gath- 
ering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere 
mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by 
swamp and stream and awful woodland to the farmhouse 
where he happened to be quartered, every sound of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 405 

nature at that witching hour fluttered his excited imagi- 
nation : the moan of the whip-poor-will 1 from the hill- 
side, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger 
of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the 
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 5 
their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most 
vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him 
as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his 
path; and if by chance a huge blockhead of a beetle 
came winging his blundering flight against him, the 10 
poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost with the idea 
that he was struck with a witch's token. His only 
resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or 
drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and 
the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 15 
doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hear- 
ing his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn 
out," floating from the distant hill or along the dusky 
road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass 20 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting 
and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their 
marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins and haunted 
fields and haunted brooks and haunted bridges and 25 
haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horse- 
men, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by 
his anecdotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens 
and portentous sights and sounds in the air which pre- 30 
vailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and would 

1 The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It 
receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those 
words. 



406 THE SKETCH BOOK 

frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets 
and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the 
world did absolutely turn round, and that they were 
half the time topsy-turvy ! 
5 But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly 
cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was 
all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and 
where of course no spectre dared to show his face, it 
was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 

10 walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows 
beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
snowy night ! With what wistful look did he eye every 
trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields 
from some distant window ! How often was he appalled 

15 by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted 
spectre, beset his very path ! How often did he shrink 
with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the 
frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over 
his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth being 

20 tramping close behind him ! and how often was he 

thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast 

howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 

Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 

25 phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and 
though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been 
more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes in his 
lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all 
these evils, and he would have passed a pleasant life of 

30 it in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path 
had not been crossed by a being that causes more per- 
plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the 
whole race of witches put' together, and that was — a 
woman. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 407 

Among the musical disciples who assembled one even- 
ing in each week to receive his instructions in psalmody 
was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass 
of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting 5 
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and 
universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her 
vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, 
as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a 
mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited 10 
to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure 
yellow gold which her great-great-grandmother had 
brought over from Saardam, the tempting stomacher 
of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petti- 
coat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the coun- 15 
try round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 
the sex, and it is not to be wondered at that so tempt- 
ing a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more espe- 
cially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. 20 
Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriv- 
ing, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it 
is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm, but within those everything 
was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satis- 25 
fled with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance rather than the style 
in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the 
banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, 
fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of 30 
nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches 
over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of 
the softest and sweetest water in a little well formed 
of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the 



408 THE SKETCH BOOK 

grass to a neighboring brook that bubbled along among 
alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was 
a vast barn that might have served for a church, every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with 
5 the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily resound- 
ing within it from morning to night, swallows and mar- 
tins skimmed twittering about the eaves, and rows of 
pigeons, some with one eye turned up as if watching 
the weather, some with their heads under their wings 

10 or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling and coo- 
ing and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the 
sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were 
grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, 
whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking 

15 pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy 
geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling 
through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about 
it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, dis- 

20 contented cry. Before the barn-door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in 
the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes tearing 
up the earth with his feet and then generously calling 

25 his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy 
the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 
his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every 

30 roasting pig running about with a pudding in his belly 
and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put 
to bed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet 
of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; 
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug mar- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 409 

ried couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. 
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side 
of bacon and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he 
beheld daintily trussed up with its gizzard under its wing, 
and peradventure a necklace of savory sausages ; and 5 
even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 
back in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving 
that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to 
ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 10 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these do- 15 
mains, and his imagination expanded with the idea how 
they might be readity turned into cash and the money 
invested in immense tracts of wild land and shingle 
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
realized his hopes and presented to him the blooming 20 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the 
top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with 
pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 25 
where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses 
with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers, the low 30 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front capable 
' of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were 
hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 



410 THE SKETCH BOOK 

built along the sides for summer use, and a great spin- 
ning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed 
the various uses to which this important porch might 
be devoted. From this piazza the wandering Ichabod 

5 entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion 
and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplen- 
dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be 
spun, in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 

10 the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried 
apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the 
walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a 
door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where 
the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone 

15 like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel 
and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops. 
Mock oranges and conch shells decorated the mantel- 
piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs were sus- 
pended above it. A great ostrich egg was hung from the 

20 centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly 
left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and 
well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight the peace of his mind Was at an end, 

25 and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any- 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such- 

30 like easily conquered adversaries to contend with ; and 
had to make his way merely through gates of iron and 
brass and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where 
the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved 
as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 411 

a Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him her hand 
as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had 
to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset 
with a labyrinth of whims and caprices which were for- 
ever presenting new difficulties and impediments ; and 5 
he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real 
flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset 
every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry 
eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
cause against any new competitor. 10 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade of the name of Abraham — or, according 
to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom — Van Brunt, the hero of 
the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 15 
jointed, with short, curly black hair and a bluff but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
of limb he had received the nickname of " Brom Bones," 
by which he was universally known. He was famed for 20 
great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dex- 
trous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at 
all races and cock fights, and, with the ascendency which 
bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in 
all disputes, setting his hat on one side and giving his 25 
decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a 
frolic, but had more mischief than ill-will in his compo- 
sition, and with all his overbearing roughness there was 
a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He 30 
had three or four boon companions who regarded him as 
their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the 
country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for 
miles around. In cold weather he was distinguished by 



412 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a fur cap surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail, and 
when the folks at a country gathering descried this well- 
known crest at a distance whisking about among a squad 
of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Some- 

5 times his crew would be heard dashing along past the 
farmhouses at midnight with whoop and halloo, like a 
troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled 
out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the 
hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim : "Ay, 

io there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neighbors 
looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and 
good-will, and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl 
occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads and 
warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

15 This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallan- 
tries, and though his amorous toyings were something 
like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it 
was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his 

20 hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire who felt no inclination to cross a 
lion in his amours ; insomuch that when his horse was 
seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a 
sure sign that his master was courting - — or, as it is 

25 termed, " sparking " — within, all other suitors passed 
by in despair and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the com- 

30 petition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He 
had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perse- 
verance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like 
a supple-jack, yielding but tough ; though he bent, he 
never broke, and though he bowed beneath the slightest 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 413 

pressure, yet the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as 
erect and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness, for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 5 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his char- 
acter of singing-master he made frequent visits at the 
farmhouse ; not that he had anything to apprehend 
from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is 10 
so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved his 
daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reason- 
able man and an excellent father, let her have her way in 
everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to 15 
do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poul- 
try ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are 
foolish things and must be looked after, but girls can 
take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame 
bustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at 20 
one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking 
his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements 
of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a sword in 
each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the 
pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime Ichabod would 25 
carry on his suit with his daughter by the side of the 
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twi- 
light, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of 30 
riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one 
vulnerable point, or door of access, while others have a 
thousand avenues and may be captured in a thousand 
different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the 



414 THE SKETCH BOOK 

former, but a still greater proof of generalship to main- 
tain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for 
his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some 
5 renown, but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 
was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and 
from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the 
interests of the former evidently declined ; his horse was 

io no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and 
a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the pre- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open war- 

15 fare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady 
according to the mode of those most concise and simple 
reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by single combat; 
but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of 
his adversary to enter the lists against him. He had 

20 overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "double the 
schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own school- 
house," and he was too wary to give him an opportu- 
nity. There was something extremely provoking in this 
obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative 

25 but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his dis- 
position, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his 
rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
cution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They 
harried his hitherto peaceful domains, smoked out his 

30 singing school by stopping up the chimney, broke into 
the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fas- 
tenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every- 
thing topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began 
to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 415 

ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom 
took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in 
presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom 
he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and 
introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 5 
psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation 
of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal after- 
noon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the 10 
lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns 
of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a 
ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of jus- 
tice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant 
terror to evil-doers ; while on the desk before him might 15 
be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weap- 
ons detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 
half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly cages, and 
whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Ap- 
parently there had been some appalling act of justice 20 
recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with 
one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing 
stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was 
suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in 25 
tow cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned frag- 
ment of a hat like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on 
the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he 
managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clat- 
tering up to the school door with an invitation to Icha- 30 
bod to attend a merrymaking, or "quilting frolic," to 
be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and 
having delivered his message with that air of importance 
and effort at fine language which a negro is apt to dis- 



416 THE SKETCH BOOK 

play on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the 
brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, 
full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 

5 schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their 
lessons without stopping at trifles ; those who were nim- 
ble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were 
tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear 
to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. 

io Books were flung aside without being put away on the 
shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown 
down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour 
before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in 

15 joy at their early emancipation. 

— -*"" The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in 

20 the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance 
before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he bor- 
rowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans 
Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth 

25 like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero 
and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plough horse that had outlived almost everything 

30 but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a 
ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and 
tail were tangled and knotted with burs ; one eye had 
lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the 
other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 417 

must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge 
from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had in fact 
been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 
Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused very 
probably some of his own spirit into the animal ; for old 5 
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk- 
ing devil in him than- in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle, his sharp elbows stuck 10 
out like grasshoppers', he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping 
of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top 
of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 15 
called ; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of 
Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate 
of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an 
apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad day- 20 
light. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day ; the sky 
was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and 
golden livery which we always associate with the idea of 
abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown 25 
and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 
been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began 
to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of 
the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and 30 
hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at 
intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping 



418 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capri- 
cious from the very profusion and variety around them. 
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of 
stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and 

5 the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the 
golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his 
broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar 
bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its 
little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the bluejay, that 

io noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white 
underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and 
bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good 
terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 

15 open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged 
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all 
sides he beheld vast stores of apples ; some hanging in 
oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in 

20 rich piles for the cider press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
from their leafy coverts and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins 
lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies 

25 to the sun and giving ample prospects of the most lux- 
urious of pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buck- 
wheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, and as 
he beheld them soft anticipations stole over his mind of 
dainty slapjacks, well buttered and garnished with honey 

30 or treacle by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina 
Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of 
a range of hills which look out upon some of the good- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 419 

liest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually 
wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide 
bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, 
excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved 
and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. 5 
A few amber clouds floated in the sky without a breath 
of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden 
tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and 
from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices 10 
that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater 
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. 
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against 
the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along 15 
the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended 
in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged 
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 20 
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race in homespun coats 
and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- 
cent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames 
in close crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, home- 
spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions and gay 25 
calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where 
a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock gave 
symptoms of city innovation. The sons in short square- 
skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 30 
their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eel skin for the pur- 
pose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a 
potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 



420 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Dare- 
devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, 
and which no one but himself could manage. He was, 
5 in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals given to all 
kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of 
his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as 
unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 

10 that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses with their luxurious 
display of red and white, but the ample charms of a gen- 
uine Dutch country tea table in the sumptuous time of 

15 autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds known only to experi- 
enced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty 
doughnut, the tenderer "olykoek," and the crisp and 
crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger 

20 cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. 
And then there were apple pies and peach pies and 
pumpkin pies, besides slices of ham and smoked beef, 
and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums and 
peaches and pears and quinces, not to mention broiled 

25 shad and roasted chickens, together with bowls of milk 
and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much 
as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven 
bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this 

30 banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with 
my story. Happily Ichabod Crane was not in so great 
a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 






THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 421 

dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene 5 
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he 'd turn his back upon the old 
schoolhouse, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call 10 
him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable atten- 
tions were brief but expressive, being confined to a shake 15 
of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to fall to and help themselves. 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itiner- 20 
ant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a 
century. His instrument was as old and battered as 
himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on 
two or three strings, accompanying every movement of 
the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to 25 
the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh 
couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about 
him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame 30 
in full motion and clattering about the room, you would 
have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of 
the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was 
the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered 



422 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of all ages and sizes from the farm and the neighbor- 
hood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at 
every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, 
rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows 
5 of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the 
lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smil- 
ing graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while 
Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat 

io brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end Ichabod was attracted 

to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 

sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over 

, former times and drawing out long stories about the 

15 war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speak- 
ing, was one of those highly favored places which abound 
with chronicle and great men. The British and Ameri- 
can line had run near it during the war ; it had there- 

20 fore been the scene of marauding, and infested with 
refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, 
and in the indistinctness of his recollection to make 

25 himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frig- 
ate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast- 
work, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 

30 And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, — 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, — who, 
in the Battle of White Plains, being an excellent master 
of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, 
insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 423 

and glance off at. the hilt ; in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a 
little bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was 
persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing 5 
the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and 
superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled 10 
retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting 
throng that forms the population of most of our country 
places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts 
in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time 
to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their 15 
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away 
from the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at 
night to walk their rounds they have no acquaintance 
left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so 
seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established 20 
Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless owing 
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it 25 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies 
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow 
people were present at Van Tassel's, and as usual were 
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dis- 
mal tales were told about funeral trains and mourning 30 
cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 
where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and 
which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was 
made also of the woman in white that haunted the dark 



424 THE SKETCH BOOK 

glen at Raven Rock and was often heard to shriek on 
winter nights before a storm, having perished there in 
the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned 
upon the favorite spectre of Sleep}- Hollow, the headless 
5 horseman, who had been heard several times of late 
patrolling the country, and, it was said, tethered his 
horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 

10 stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty 
elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth like Christian purity beaming 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 
scends from it to a silver sheet of water bordered by 

15 high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide, 

20 woody dell, along which raves a large brook among 
broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep, 
black part of the stream, not far from the church, was 
formerly thrown a wooden bridge. The road that led to 
it and the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhang- 

25 ing trees, which cast a gloom about it even in the day- 
time, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This 
was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman, 
and the place where he was most frequently encoun- 
tered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heret- 

30 ical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over 
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached 
the bridge, when the horseman suddenly turned into a 



THE LEGEND : HOLLOW 1' 

skeleton, threw old Bret :.: - 

away over the tree tops with a . : ; - - . ■ : - " 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 
vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey- He affirmed 5 
that on returning one night from the neighboring vil- 
lage of Sing Sing, he had ":. - -: - : . - - 1 - : . 
night trooper, that he hat : : : • . - 
a bowl of punch, and should ha- -. :: : — : : 7, : rt- 
devil beat the goblin horse all hollow, — but jnst as they 10 
came to the church bridge the E - . : 1 : 
ished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in thai 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam 15 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Idb- 
abod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from 
his invaluable author. '. . : : :. 1:: 
marvellous events that had taken place in his native 
State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had 20 
seen in his nightry walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually V:- 

gathered together their families in their wagons, and 
were heard for some tint rat: l: - 
roads and over the distant halls. Some of the damsel: - 
mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and 
their light-hearted laughter, wwmgKng with the clatter 
of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding 
fainter and fainter until tht - : — 1- : 

the late scene of r. 
serted. Ichabod : 
custom of cou: 

aonvinced that he was now on the high 
road to succt 5 



426 THE SKETCH BOOK 

not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Some- 
thing, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he 
certainly sallied forth after no very great interval with 
an air quite desolate and chopf alien. Oh, these women ! 
5 these women ! Could that girl have been playing off 
any of her coquettish tricks ? Was her encouragement 
of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her 
conquest of his rival ? Heaven only knows, not I ! Let 
it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one 

io who had been sacking a henroost rather than a fair lady's 
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice 
the scene of rural wealth on which he had so often 
gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several 
hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncour- 

15 teously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
oats and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel home- 

20 wards along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 
below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast 

25 of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In 
the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the bark- 
ing of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the 
Hudson, but it was so vague and faint as only to give an 
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 

30 Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock 
accidentally awakened would sound far, far off, from 
some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like 
a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred 
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 427 

cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from 
a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollec- 5 
tion. The night grew darker and darker, the stars 
seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds 
occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never 
felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approach- 
ing the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 10 
stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood 
an enormous tulip tree which towered like a giant above 
all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed a 
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, 
large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting 15 
down almost to the earth and rising again into the air. 
It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortu- 
nate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by, and 
was universally known by the name of Major Andre's 
tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture 20 
of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for 
the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the 
tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told 
concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to 25 
whistle. He thought his whistle was answered — it was 
but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. 
As he approached a little nearer he thought he saw 
something white hanging in the midst of the tree ; he 
paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking more nar- 30 
rowly perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
been scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. 
Suddenly he heard a groan ; his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle ; it was but the rubbing 



428 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of one huge bough upon another as they were swayed 
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety but 
new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
5 crossed the road and ran into a marshy and thickly 
wooded glen known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A 
few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over 
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 
entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts matted 

10 thick with wild grapevines threw a cavernous gloom over 
it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was 
at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was 
captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and 
vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised 

15 him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who 
has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to 
thump. He summoned up, however, all his resolution, 

20 gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead 
of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a 
lateral movement and ran broadside against the fence. 
Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked 

25 the reins on the other side and kicked lustily with the 
contrary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it 
is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of 
the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. 
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel 

30 upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed 
forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand 
just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly 
sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 
moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 429 

the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of 
the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- 
thing huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred 
not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom like some 
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 5 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and 
fly was now too late, and besides, what chance was there 
of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could 
ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, there- 10 
fore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering 
accents, " Who are you ? " He received no reply. He 
repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still 
there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides 
of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, 15 
broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 
motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once 
in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 20 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse 
of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or 
sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jog- 
ging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had 25 
now got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 30 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind ; 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him. He endeavored to resume his psalm tune but his 



430 THE SKETCH BOOK 

parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
ion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon 
5 fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground 
which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
against the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a 
cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he 
was headless ! But his horror was still more increased 

io on observing that the head, which should have rested on 
his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of 
the saddle. His terror rose to desperation. He rained 
a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by 
a sudden movement to give his companion the slip — but 

15 the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments 
fluttered in the air as he stretched his long, lank body 
away over his horse's head in the eagerness of his flight. 

20 They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite 
turn and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This 
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for 

25 about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 

30 had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the 
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 
He seized it by the pommel and endeavored to hold it 
firm, but in vain, and had just time to save himself by 
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 431 

fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Rip- 
per's wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sun- 
day saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the 
goblin was hard on his haunches, and — unskilful rider 5 
that he was ! — he had much ado to maintain his seat, 
sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
backbone with a violence that he verily feared would 
cleave him asunder. 10 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The waver- 
ing reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook 
told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of 
the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 15 
recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly com- 
petitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he 
heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. An- 20 
other convulsive kick in the ribs and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge, he thundered over the resound- 
ing planks, he gained the opposite side; and now Icha- 
bod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. 25 
Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in 
the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod en- 
deavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It 
encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash; he 
was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, 30 
the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a 
whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 



432 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, 
but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house and strolled idly about the banks of the brook, 
5 but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to 
feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and 
his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after dili- 
gent investigation they came upon his traces. In one 
part of the road leading to the church was found the 

10 saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses' hoofs 
deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, 
were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of 
a broad part of the brook where the water ran deep and 
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and 

15 close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 
tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two 

20 shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or two 
of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small- 
clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes full of 
dogs' ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the books 
and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the 

25 community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witch- 
craft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams 
and fortune telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van 

30 Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper, 
who from that time forward determined to send his chil- 
dren no more to school, observing that he never knew 
any good come of this same reading and writing. What- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 433 

ever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 5 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to> mind ; and when they 10 
had diligently considered them all and compared them 
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their 
heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been 
carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bach- 
elor and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any 15 
more about him. The school was removed to a differ- 
ent quarter of the hollow and another pedagogue reigned 
in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 20 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive, 
that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Ripper and partly in mortifica- 
tion at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress, 25 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
country, had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, 
electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 30 
Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, 
was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 



434 THE SKETCH BOOK 

hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter 
than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
5 judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Icha- 
bod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is 
a favorite story often told about, the neighborhood round 
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than 
ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the 

10 reason why the road has been altered of late years so as 
to approach the church by the border of the mill pond. 
The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortu- 
nate pedagogue ; and the ploughboy loitering homeward 

15 of a still summer evening has often fancied his voice at 
a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among 
the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in 
which I heard it related at a corporation meeting of the ancient 
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest 
and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, 
shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with 5 
a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected 
of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When 
his story was concluded there was much laughter and approba- 
tion, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen who had 
been asleep a greater part of the time. There was, however, 10 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, 
who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, 
now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking 
down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He 
was one of your wary men who never laugh but upon good 15 
grounds — when they have reason and the law on their side. 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and 
silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his 
chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight 
but exceedingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the 20 
brow, what was the moral of the story and what it went to 
prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
lips as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering 25 
the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was 
intended most logically to prove : 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it ; 

435 



436 THE SKETCH BOOK 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it ; 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of 
a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the 
5 state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination 
of the syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt 
eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he 
io observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the 
story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points 
on which he had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself." 



L'ENVOY * 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, 
the author cannot but express his deep sense of the 
indulgence with which his first has been received, and of 
the liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat 
him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, 5 
whatever may be said of them by others, he has found 
to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race. It is 
true that each has in turn objected to some one or two 
articles, and that these individual exceptions taken in 
the aggregate would amount almost to a total condem- 10 
nation of his work; but then he has been consoled 
by observing that what one has particularly censured 
another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the enco- 
miums being set off against the objections, he finds his 
work upon the whole commended far beyond its deserts. 15 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
this kind favor by not following the counsel that has 
been liberally bestowed upon him, for where abundance 
of valuable advice is given gratis it may seem a man's 
own fault if he should go astray. He can only say, in 20 
his vindication, that he faithfully determined for a time 

1 Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
437 



438 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions 
passed upon his first, but he was soon brought to a 
stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
advised him to avoid the ludicrous, another to shun the 
5 pathetic, a third assured him that he was tolerable at 
description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone, 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack 
at turning a story and was really entertaining when in a 
pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imag- 

10 ined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to follow all 
their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He 

15 remained for a time sadly embarrassed, when all at once 
the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; 
that his work being miscellaneous and written for differ- 
ent humors, it could not be expected that any one would 
be pleased with the whole, but that if it should contain 

20 something to suit each reader his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table 
with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an ele- 
gant horror of a roasted pig, another holds a curry or a 
devil in utter abomination, a third cannot tolerate the 

25 ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl, and a fourth, of 
truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt 
on those knickknacks here and there dished up for the 
ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn, and 
yet, amidst this variety of appetites seldom does a dish 

30 go away from the table without being tasted and reljshed 
by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his 
first, simply requesting the reader, if he should find here 



V ENVOY 439 

and there something to please him, to rest assured that 
it was written expressly for intelligent readers like him- 
self ; but entreating him, should he find anything to 
dislike, to tolerate it as one of those articles which the 
author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 5 
refined taste. 

To be serious, the author is couscious of the numer- 
ous faults and imperfections of his work, and well aware 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts 
of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 10 
diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds 
himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a 
public which he has been accustomed from childhood to 
regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. 
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet 15 
finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his 
powers and depriving him of that ease and confidence 
which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go 
on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier foot- 20 
ing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, 
surprised at his own good fortune and wondering at his 
own temerity. 



APPENDIX 

Notes Concerning Westminster Abbey 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain under 
the dominion of the Saxons was in a state of barbarism and 
idolatry, Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of 
some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market place 
5 at Rome, conceived a fancy for the race, and determined to 
send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely but 
benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by learning 
that Ethelbert, king of Kent and the most potent of the 
Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian prin- 

10 cess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was 
allowed by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters 
of religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a 
Roman monk, with forty associates to the court of Ethelbert at 

15 Canterbury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain 
through him a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily and held a conference in the 
open air, being distrustful of foreign priestcraft and fearful of 
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him 

20 as good a Christian as his wife. The conversion of the king 
of course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The 
zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being made 
Archbishop of Canterbury and being endowed with authority 
over all the British churches. 

25 One of the most prominent converts was Segebert, or Sebert, 
king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned 
at London, of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who 
had come over with Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by 
440 



APPENDIX 441 

the riverside to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple 
of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of West- 
minster Abbey. Great preparations were made for the conse- 
cration of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. 
On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, 5 
proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the cere- 
mony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, 
who informed him that it was needless to proceed as the cere- 
mony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when the 
fisherman went on to relate that the night before, as he was in 10 
his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him and told 
him that he intended to consecrate the church himself that 
very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, 
which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was per- 
formed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly 1 5 
music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this the apostle 
came into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. 
He did so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes, one of 
which he was commanded to present to the bishop, and to 
signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the 20 
necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required con- 
firmation of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors 
and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water, oil sprinkled in 
various places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. 25 
If he had still any lingering doubts, they were completely 
removed on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which 
he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To 
resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. 
The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church 30 
had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person, so he 
reverently abstained from proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King 
Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a reli- 
gious house which he meant to endow. He pulled down the 35 
old church and built another in its place in 1045. In this his 
remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. 






442 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a 
reconstruction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume 
its present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that 
5 monarch turning the monks away and seizing upon the rev- 
enues. 



Relics of Edward the Confessor 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688 by one of the chor- 
isters of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry 
of the sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging 

10 among the bones of Edward the Confessor, after they had 
quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of six hundred 
years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain 
of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had 
officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, 

15 among his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of 
the abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited in a 
kind of chest, or coffin, which was indistinctly seen in the upper 
part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the Abbey 
gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until 

20 the worthy narrator to gratify his curiosity mounted to the cof- 
fin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, 
apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of 
iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used 

25 in the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be 
broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made through 
accident by the workmen. No one ventured, however, to med- 
dle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several 
weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the knowledge of 

30 the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the abbey 
in company with two friends of congenial tastes who were 
desirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder he again 
mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a 
hole in the lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just 



APPENDIX 443 

in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping 
among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a 
crucifix richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain 
twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive 
friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 5 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain 
out of the coffin, / drew the head to the hole and viewed it, 
being very sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws 
whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, 
in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. There 10 
was also in the coffin white linen and gold-colored flowered 
silk that looked indifferent fresh, but the least stress put thereto 
showed it was well-nigh perished. There were all his bones, 
and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human 15 
pride than the scull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently 
pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to 
grin face to face with him through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix 
and chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to 20 
apprise him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible 
at the time, and fearing that the " holy treasure " might be 
taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to 
accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours after- 
wards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These 25 
he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The 
king subsequently had the old coffin enclosed in a new one 
of great strength, " each plank being two inches thick and 
cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains 
(1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be 30 
offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a 
description of it in modern times. " The solitary and forlorn 
shrine," says a British writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of 
what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations 35 
inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays of the sun, forever set 
on its splendor. . . . Only two of the spiral pillars remain. 



444 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The wooden Ionic top is much broken and covered with dust. 
The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only 
the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of 
the rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 



Inscription on a Monument Alluded to in the 
Sketch 

5 Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess 
his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was 
Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colches- 
ter, a noble family ; for all the brothers were valiant, and all 
the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and 

[o learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : she was 
a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her 
lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he 
came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirement. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in 

15 the afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect 

is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of 

the cathedral and the transepts are in profound and cavernous 

darkness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst 

the deep brown of the open slats and canopies. The partial 

20 illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and 

screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom catches here 

. and there upon a sepulchral decoration or monumental effigy. 

The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling 

25 in the old conventual part of the pile by the boys of the choir 

in their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes 

through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up 

angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving 

all behind in darkness. 



APPENDIX 445 

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the 
Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage 
catches a distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a 
tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite 
a spectral effect. It is a mural monument of one of the 
Pultneys. 



NOTES 

( TJie Jigures refer to pages and lines.) 

11 The Author's Account of Himself. The first paper in the 
Spectator has a similar title. Addison was warmly admired by Irving, 
and traces of his influence can be detected in the Sketch Book. 

11 Lily's Euphues. John Lily, or Lyly (1553 ?-i6oo ?), prose 
writer and dramatist, is now best known by his once popular romance, 
Euphues. This work introduced into England an affected style of 
writing and speaking known as euphuism, — a term still applied to 
elegant, high-flown language. 

11 17 Terra incognita, unknown country. 

14 16 St. Peter's . . . the Coliseum (or Colosseum). Both 
are in Rome. The first is the largest and most noted cathedral in 
the world ; the second is an enormous amphitheatre, mostly in ruins, 
which was designed for combats of gladiators and wild beasts. 

14 16 The Cascade of Terni (or the Cascata del Marmora) is a 
beautiful cascade near Terni, in Perugia, Italy. 

15 The Voyage is not one of Trving's best sketches. He does 
not write of his life at sea in a way that enables the reader to share 
his sensations. He fails to suggest the vastness and mystery of the 
ocean, and the sense of freedom and exhilaration with which it inspires 
those who truly love it. The student should compare the descriptions 
in this sketch with those in the Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of 
Sleepy Hollow, where the writer is painting scenes that lie near his 
heart. — See remarks on description in Mr. J. H. Gardiner's The 
Forms of Prose Literature (1900), pp. 154-177. 

15 1 The long voyage. When Irving first visited Europe, in 
1804, he was six weeks in going from New York to Bordeaux. 
Returning, he left Gravesend on the 17th of January, and was on 
the water sixty-four days. Ocean steamships did not exist at that 
time. — See Chronological Table. 

15 16 A lengthening chain. Goldsmith: The Traveller, 1. 10. 
447 



448 THE SKETCH BOOK 

19 30 Deep called unto deep. "Deep calleth unto deep." — 
Psalms xlii. 7. 

23 Roscoe, William Roscoe (17 53-1 831). His most important 
works are : The Life of Lorenzo de' Medici ; Illustrations, etc., of the 
Life of Lorenzo de' Medici ; and The Life and Pontificate of Leo the 
Tenth. 

25 19 Elysium, the supposed state or abode of the blessed after 
death, in Greek mythology. 

25 25 A daily beauty. Shakespeare : Othello, Act V. Sc. 1, 
lines 18-20. 

26 10 Lorenzo de' Medici (i449?-i492), a celebrated Florentine 
statesman and patron of art and letters. 

28 7 Ill-favored, unpleasant looking. Favor was used formerly 
to denote the appearance of the face. Such expressions as, " He 
favors (looks like) his mother " are still in colloquial use. 

28 30 Black-letter, the Old English or Gothic letter, in which the 
early English manuscripts were written and the first books printed. 

29 2 Muse. As used here, the term means poetic inspiration. It 
is applied, in the first place, to the goddesses in Greek mythology 
known as the Nine Muses. These deities presided over song and 
the different kinds of poetry, and also over the arts and sciences. 

30 7 Pompey's Column, or Pillar, stands about three-quarters of 
a mile from Alexandria. Nothing is positively known concerning 
its origin, name, use, and age. 

31 The Wife. As an artistic production, this is perhaps the most 
faulty piece in the Sketch Book. The sentiment is overcharged, the 
terms used are in many instances general instead of specific, the 
characters lack individuality. Still, the warm human sympathy of 
the author saves it from absolute inferiority. In criticising Irving's 
style, it is well to remember that he wrote for a public whose taste 
was widely different from that of the public of to-day. 

31 Middleton, Thomas Middleton (1570 ?-i627), English dram- 
atist. 

40 Rip Van Winkle. This sketch deserves careful study. Its 
charm consists first of all in the atmosphere which pervades it — an 
atmosphere whose elements are humor and the sense of natural 
beauty, combined with a touch of the supernatural. These are sug- 
gested at the outset by the mention of the " good wives " and their 
superstitions, and by the delicate picture of the Kaatskills, the " fairy 
mountains," with their " magical hues and shapes." The descriptions 



XOTES 449 

are full of life and motion. Notice the following passages : " When- 
ever he went," etc., p. 43, 1. 10; "His son Rip," etc., p. 44, 1. 15; 
"The moment "Wolf," etc., p. 45, 1. 15; "From an opening," etc., 
p. 47, 1. 21. The persons in the story are painted in broad strokes, 
and yet they do not lack individuality. In Rip's personality there 
is that subtle mingling of the individual with the universal wmich 
always distinguishes the enduring characters of fiction. As a crown- 
ing virtue, the narrative once begun does not lag, does not give place 
to moralizing. 

Mr. Joseph Jefferson's impersonation of Rip Van Winkle has done 
much to increase the popularity of Irving's sketch. 

40 Diedrich Knickerbocker, the fictitious author of Irving's His- 
tory of X civ York. — See Introduction in the present volume. 

40 Woden is the highest god of the Teutonic peoples. Wednes- 
day is named after him. The Scandinavian form of the god's name 
is Odin. 

40 Cartwright, William Cartwright (1611-1643), a divine, and 
a poet and dramatist of note in his day. 

41 7 More in sorrow, etc. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 2, lines 231, 232. 
41 14 Waterloo Medal. This medal, which was of silver, was 

conferred on all persons serving under the English flag in the actions 
of June 16, 17, and 18, 1S15. The Battle of Waterloo occurred 
June iS. The medal was the first given by an English sovereign 
to both officers and men. 

41 14 Queen Anne's Farthing. Dean Swift's suggestion, that 
current history should be commemorated on copper coinage, led to 
the issue of these famous farthings. " These have been the cause of 
an extraordinary delusion, to the effect that a very small number 
(some say three) of these pieces were struck, and that their value is 
a thousand pounds each, instead of usually some shillings." — Ency- 
clopedia Britannica : Numismatics. 

41 it The Kaatskill Mountains (Catskill is the modern form). 
The eastern base of this group is about seven miles west of the 
Hudson River. "These mountains abound in magnificent and pic- 
turesque scenery, diversified by high precipices, cataracts, and deep 
ravines bordered by almost perpendicular cliffs." 

42 7 Peter Stuy vesant, the last Dutch governor of Xew Nether- 
lands (New York), appointed about 1645. He is a conspicuous char- 
acter in Irving's History of A r ew York, by " Diedrich Knickerbocker." 

42 19 Siege of Fort Christina. In 1655 Stuyvesant seized this 



450 THE SKETCH BOOK 

fort and several others erected by the Swedes on the Delaware, and 
broke up the Swedish colony. 

44 ]9 Galligaskins, loose breeches. 

48 27 Jerkin, a jacket, or short coat. 

49 24 Doublets, close-fitting body garments, with or without 
sleeves, worn by men from the fourteenth to the eighteenth century. 

49 34 Hanger, a term applied, especially in the eighteenth cen- 
tury, to a short curved sword suspended at the side. 

50 2 Roses, rosettes. In the costume necessary for an actor 
Hamlet includes " two Provincial roses on my razed shoes." 

50 4 Dominie usually signifies schoolmaster. Among the Dutch 
settlers and their descendants, however, it is a title given to the min- 
ister. The term comes from the Latin dominus, master. 

50 27 Hollands, gin made in Holland. 

51 13 Firelock, a gun having an old form of gunlock known 
as a firelock or flintlock, which ignites the charge by a spark. The 
invention of the percussion cap did away with the old form of 
lock. 

54 9 That looked like a red night-cap. This refers to a liberty 
cap, " a cap of the form known as Phrygian, used as a symbol of 
political or personal liberty. The custom is taken from the supposed 
use of this cap as the token of the manumission [freeing] of a slave 
in Rome." The bonnet rouge (red cap) was used as a symbol during 
the French Revolution. (See Century Dictionary of Names .) The 
Goddess of Liberty is usually represented as wearing a soft, close- 
fitting cap, and liberty poles are surmounted by a cap of the same 
kind. 

54 34 Babylonish jargon, confused, Babel-like jargon; an allu- 
sion to the confusion of tongues resulting from the attempt to build 
the Tower of Babel. — See Genesis xi. 

55 ]0 Federal or Democrat. The Federalists, with Hamilton 
at their head, believed in making the central government strong; 
the Anti-Federalists, or Democrats, wished to reserve large powers 
of local government to the states. The last named were represented 
by Jefferson. 

56 10 Stony Point. Gen. Anthony Wayne captured the Eng- 
lish garrison at Stony Point, on the Hudson, July 18, 1779. His 
assault was one of the most brilliant exploits of the Revolution. 

56 12 Anthony's Nose, a promontory on the Hudson, near 
which there was a bloody contest in 1777. 



NOTES 451 

58 33 Hendrick Hudson (properly Henry Hudson) was an emi- 
nent English navigator who in 1609, while in the service of the 
Dutch East India Company, discovered the river which bears his 
name. " Hudson's personality is shadowy in the extreme, and his 
achievements have been the subject of much exaggeration and 
misrepresentation." — See Dictionary of National Biography. 

61 3 Frederick der Rothbart, Frederick I., Emperor of Germany 
(1121-1190), surnamed Barbarossa, or der Rothbart (Red-beard). 
According to the legend he sleeps at Kyffhauserberg in Thuringia, 
where he sits at a stone table with six of his companions. When 
his beard shall have wound itself thrice around the table he will 
return and give Germany the foremost place among the nations. 

63 English Writers on America. This article illustrates the 
change that has taken place in our relations with England since the 
War of 181 2. Such a book as The American Commonwealth, by 
James Bryce, proves that in these times an Englishman may study 
our institutions with intelligence and sympathy. After reading 
what Irving says of foreign immigration, the pupil would do well to 
look up the various restrictive measures that have been passed by 
Congress during the last few years, and to consider the changed 
conditions that have made these measures necessary. — Consult 
Emigration and Immigration, by Richmond M. Smith (1892) ; U. S. 
Immigration Laws and Regulations (1895) ; Annual Reports of the 
U. S. Commissioner-General of Immigration ; Chinese Immigration, 
by George F. Seward (1881). 

63 Milton on the Liberty of the Press. This is perhaps the best 
known of Milton's prose works. It was originally entitled : Areopa- 
gitica. A Speech of Mr. John Milton for the Liberty of Unlicensed 
Printing, to the Parliament of England, 1644. 

64 1 Regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile, etc. The 
regions mentioned by Irving are no longer unknown. 

65 21 El Dorado (the gilded), the name of a fictitious country 
or city abounding in gold, believed by the Spaniards and by Sir 
Walter Raleigh to exist upon the Amazon, in the region of Guiana. 

70 12 The late war, the War of 181 2. 

71 32 Knowledge is power (" Nam et ipsa scientia potestas 
est "). — ■ Bacon : Meditationes Sacrae ; de Haeresibus. 

74 8 Wakes. In England these were festivals held yearly in 
each parish to commemorate the completion of the parish church. 
There was usually an all-night vigil in the church and a festival the 



452 THE SKETCH BOOK 

day following. The wake was sometimes held on the day of the 
saint to whom the church was dedicated. — See Century Dictionary. 
75 31 Immense metropolis. In 182 1, a few years after this 
expression was penned by Irving, the population of London was 
1,227,590. For the year 1899, the population of "greater London" 
was estimated by the registrar-general at 6,408,321. 

79 31 The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer. According to 
Skeat this poem was written not by Chaucer but by a woman. 

80 12 Elegant minds. Elegant was formerly used of persons, 
and signified correct and delicate in taste. 

80 27 Ideas of order, of quiet. Irving's expression calls to 
mind the well-known stanza in Tennyson's Palace of Art : 

" And one, an English home — gray- 
Twilight pour'd 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things 

In order stored, 

A haunt of ancient Peace." 

81 8 Right of Way. " A right of way is the privilege which 
an individual or a particular description of individuals . . . have of 
going over another's ground." This right may arise in various ways. 
— See Bouvier's Law Dictionary (1884). 

83 The Broken Heart. Irving is not at his best in this sketch, 
and yet his sympathy and his tenderness awaken a response in the 
heart of the reader and make him almost forget that the writer is 
sentimental and prolix. 

84 15 The wings of the morning. Psalms cxxxix. 9, 10, and 
lv. 6. 

84 17 A fixed, a secluded, etc. If Irving were living now, he 
would hardly make this remark about the life of woman, — at least, 
of woman in America. 

85 7 Dry sorrow drinks her blood. Romeo and Juliet, Act III. 
Sc. 5, 1. 59 : " Dry sorrow drinks our blood." 

85 12 Darkness and the worm : 

" The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave, 
The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm." 

Young: Night Thoughts, Night IV. 10, n. 

86 3 Young E. Robert Emmet (1778-1803), born in Dublin, 
tried to bring about a general revolution in Ireland ; but his 



NOTES 453 

followers were put to flight by a military force and he was executed 
on a charge of high treason. He might have escaped had he not 
determined to have a last interview with Miss Curran. 

86 20 Celebrated Irish barrister, John Philpot Curran (1750- 

1817). 

87 27 Heeded not the song, etc., "Which will not hearken 
to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely." — Psalms 
lviii. 5. 

89 l Moore. Thomas Moore (1779-1852). His best poetical 
productions are Lalla Rookh and Irish Melodies ; his most important 
prose work, the Life of Byron. 

90 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. Robert Burton (1577- 
1640). Dr. Johnson said of the Anatomy that it was the only book 
that ever took him out of his bed two hours sooner than he had 
intended to rise. 

90 The Art of Book-Making. It would be well for the student 
of composition to compare this sketch with the preceding one. 
Although the subject is not calculated to arouse general interest, 
the piece is artistically good. Irving's delightful humor pervades 
it, and it is free from the moralizing that occasionally mars his 
productions. 

90 14 British Museum, founded in 1758. Besides numerous 
valuable collections the museum contains the largest library in the 
world next to that of the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. In 1899 
it was estimated that the first contained about 2,000,000 bound 
volumes ; the second, 2,600,000. 

90 23 Strange-favored, strange-looking. — See note on p. 28, 1. 7. 

91 19 Folio, a book of the largest size, since it is made of sheets 
folded but once. A quarto is composed of sheets folded twice, each 
sheet making four leaves ; an octavo, of sheets folded three times, 
each sheet making eight leaves ; and so on. 

91 24 Familiar, an attendant demon or evil spirit. 

91 29 Magi, wise men, philosophers or magicians, living in the 
East. 

92 17 Pure English, undefiled. Evidently Irving had in mind 
Spenser's expression, " Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled." — 
The Farie Queen, IV. ii. 32 ; but he confused it with the Bible 
verse: "Pure religion and undefiled before God," etc. — fames 
i. 27. 

92 23 Black-letter. — See note on p. 28, 1. 30. 



454 THE SKETCH BOOK 

93 9 Line upon line. Isaiah xxviii. io. 

93 12 Witches' caldron. Macbeth, Act IV. Sc. i. 

93 32 Metempsychosis, the passage of the soul at death into 
another living body, whether of a brute or a human being. 

94 ]9 Sleep with their fathers. Expressions similar to this 
occur occasionally in the Old Testament. 

95 22 Old court-dresses, etc. In Queen Elizabeth's time court- 
iers and men of fashion frequently wrote poems and prose works 
for private circulation. 

95 25 The Paradise of Daintie Devices, a collection of sixteenth 
century poetry, published first in 1576. 

95 26 Sir Philip Sidney (1 554-1 586), statesman, soldier, and 
poet. The Arcadia and the Apologie for Poetrie are his chief works 
in prose. He also wrote sonnets, love songs, and other poems. 

95 32 Small-clothes, knee-breeches. 

96 9 An Arcadian hat. Pastoral poetry deals with country life, 
especially the life of shepherds. The Arcadians were a Greek people 
noted for their simplicity, and hence the Greek and Roman poets 
frequently alluded to them in their pastoral poems. In the artificial 
pastorals of more recent times the life of the shepherd is represented 
as one of impossible felicity. Milton has made charming use of 
the pastoral element in his Lycidas. 

96 11 Primrose Hill . . . Regent's Park. Primrose Hill Park 
contains about fifty acres ; Regent's Park, which is not far distant, 
four hundred and three. Both are in the metropolis of London. 

96 15 Babbling about green fields, Theobald's emendation of 
" a Table of green fields." — Shakespeare : King Henry V. Act II. 
Sc. 3, 1. 17. 

97 2 Beaumont and Fletcher. Francis Beaumont (1 584-1616) 
and John Fletcher (1 579-1625) were noted Elizabethan dramatists 
who frequently wrote together. Among the best of their joint works 
are : Pkilaster, The Maid's Tragedy, and Cupid \r Revenge. The 
following lines were written by one of their admirers : 

" Beaumont and Fletcher, those twin stars that run 
Their glorious course round Shakespeare's golden sun." 

97 4 Castor and Pollux, twin brothers, sometimes called Dio- 
scuri (sons of Jove), were well-known characters in Greek mythology. 
The famous Helen was their sister. They took part in the Caly- 
donian Hunt, the Argonautic Expedition, and other daring enterprises. 



NOTES - z: 

Jupiter placed them in heaven, where they form the constellation 
known as the Gemini (the Twins). 

97 4 Ben Jonson (1574-1637), a noted English dramatist and a 
man of nncommon classical learning. Among his best dramas are : 
Every Man in His Humour, Epiccene, or the Silent Woman, and 71 t 
Alchemist. It is said that while serving in the Eng lish army in 
the Low Countries, Jonson engaged in single combat with an 
enemy in the face of both camps, killed him, and stripped him of his 
armor. — See Ben Jonson, by J. A. Symonds, in the English Worthies 
Series. 

97 6 Farragos, medleys, mixtures. 

97 5 Harlequin, a buffoon dressed in party-colored clothes; 
originally a clown in the improvised Italian comedy, the servant of 
Pantaleone, or Pantaloon. 

97 10 Patroclus, a hero in Homer's Iliad, the dear friend of 
Achilles. He was killed while fighting in armor borrowed of 
Achilles. The struggle for the possession of his body is described 
in the last part of Book XVII. 

97 20 Chopped bald shot. Shot signifies one who shoots. 
give me always a little lean, old, chopped, bald shot " ; a remark of 
FalstafFs descriptive of Wart, a raw recruit. — Shakespeare : Henry 
IV. Part II. Act III. Sc 2. 1. 294. 

97 23 Learned The: an. -^ise man. Speaking ::' Ziz^r. Leai 
says, " I Tl talk a word with this same learned Theban." — Shakes- 
peare : King Lear, Act III. Sc 4, L 149. Of course Theban signi- 
fies in the first place an inhabitant of Thebes, in Greece. 

98 4 Literary preserve. A preserve is a place set apart for the 
77::^::;:" ir.i -::r 2.Z3.T.: r_ :: rajme intended t:r hunting :r dsding. 
In England, from the days of William the Conqueror to the pre; en : 
time, there have been strict laws in regard to the keeping and killing 
of game. The penalties attached to poaching are still extremely 
severe. 

99 A Royal Poet, James I. of Scotland (1394 ?-i45-». A satis- 
:::::rv::::;:n ::' hi; life rr.ny :e :': ur.f. in the 1 .::.:: . - X:. :::>:z~. 
Biography. It is known that he wrote The Kingis Quair ( The King's 
Book), but other works attributed to him have not been identified. 

99 a Windsor Castle is in Windsor, a town twenty-one miles 
from London. The sovereigns of England have for many centuries 
made this their chief residence. 

99 91 Sir Peter Lely < 161S-1680), a Dutch artist who was I 



456 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Painter to Charles II. The beauties of the court were the subjects 
of his masterpieces. 

100 3 Hapless Surrey. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517 ?- 
1547), was sentenced to death on a charge of treason, and beheaded 
on Tower Hill. In a manly speech he denied that he had any 
treasonable intention. Surrey has an important place in English 
literature, for he was the first to write English blank verse, and he 
and his master, Wyatt, introduced into England the sonnet and the 
" ottava rima." In one of his poems he mentions Geraldine as the 
name of his lady-love. — See Dictionary of National Biography. 

100 21 Storied tapestry. The finest tapestries were made at 
Bruges and Arras, in Flanders, from 1450 to 1500, and many of these 
represented Scripture scenes or historical events. The Gobelin tap- 
estry of more recent times, made in France, is also famous. — See 
Encyclopedia Britannica : Textiles and Gobelin. 

101 27 To joust, to tournay {tourney), to engage in a mock com- 
bat on horseback. The joust was a combat between two knights ; 
the tournament, a mock battle in which many knights took part. 
The latter was usually held in an enclosed field known as the " lists." 
— See Scott's description of a tournament in Ivanhoe, Chap. xiii. 

101 28 Mediciner, physician. The knight was often called upon 
to bind up wounds and to care for the sick. 

102 28 Tasso, Torquato Tasso (1 544-1 595), the celebrated Ital- 
ian poet, whose most important work is the Jerusalem Delivered. 
At one time, having offended the Duke of Ferrara, he was confined 
for seven years in a hospital for lunatics. 

102 30 The King's Quair {The King's Book) was composed in 
j 423. — See The Kingis Quair, together with a Ballad of Good Coun- 
sel, edited by W. W. Skeat (Scottish Text Society, 1884). 

104 8 Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius. The 
original reads : 

" And, in Aquary, Citherea [Cynthia is correct] the clere 
Rinsid hir tressis like the goldin wyre." 

Aquarius, the water-carrier, is the eleventh sign in the Zodiac. Freely 
rendered the lines quoted would read : " And in Aquarius Cynthia 
[the moon goddess], the shining one, rinsed, or cleansed, her tresses 
which were like golden wire." 

104 11 Boetius, or Boethius, a celebrated Roman philosopher 
and statesman (a.d. 475 ?-5 2 5 ? )- His principal work, On the 



NOTES 457 

Consolation of Philosophy, was written in prison just before his 
execution. It was very popular during the Middle Ages. 

104 30 Matins, a service observed in the Roman Catholic 
Church, beginning at midnight, and consisting of two services, noc- 
turns and lauds. The term applies in the first place to the hour at 
which the service is held, called the first canonical hour. — See 
Cenfoiry Dictionary. 

105 33 Lamentations over his perpetual blindness. Milton's 
expressions are too noble to be called lamentations. — See Paradise 
Lost, Book III. lines 1-55 ; Sonnet on his blindness, — " When I con- 
sider how my light is spent " ; Sonnet to Cyriac Skinner, — " Cyriac, 
this three years' day." Certain passages in Samson Agonistes, relat- 
ing to Samson's blindness, are evidently inspired by the author's 
strong personal feeling. 

106 14 Fortired, excessively tired. 

107 14 Kalends, or calends, the first day of each month in the 
ancient Roman calendar. 

108 12 Morrowe, morning ; from the Old English word morwe. 

108 18 Chaucer's Knight's Tale, or Knightes Tale. For the 
scene alluded to, see lines 175-328. Geoffrey Chaucer (i340?-i40o) 
was the first English poet of distinction. The Knightes Tale forms 
one of the Canterhiry Tales, his most important work. — See Com- 
plete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, edited by W. W. Skeat (1894). 

109 24 Phoebus, i.e. the shining one, an epithet applied to the 
Greek sun-god, Apollo. 

Ill 22 Gower, John Gower (1325-1400), called by Chaucer 
"moral Gower," was an English poet highly esteemed in former 
times. The Confessio Amantis (Confession of a Lover) is his only 
English poem. 

111 22 Studier, a form not in good use. 

112 1 One of the most brilliant eras. The student can read 
of this era, the Age of Chaucer, in any history of English literature, 
or in Green's History of the English People. 

112 10 Morning stars. " When the morning stars sang together, 
and all the sons of God shouted for joy?" — Job xxxviii. 7. Chaucer 
has been called " the morning star of English poetry." 

112 14 Captivating fiction, an allusion to the writings of Sir 
Walter Scott. 

115 11 Christ's Kirk of the Green. It has not been established 
that King James wrote this poem. 



458 THE SKETCH BOOK 

115 26 Vaucluse, a village in France, once the residence of the 
Italian poet, Petrarch. 

115 28 Loretto, or Loreto, a city in Italy, near the Adriatic, 
which contains a celebrated shrine. — See note referring to p. 304, 
1. 29. 

116 The Country Church. This article contains a description 
in the author's best style, — the description of the family of the 
"wealthy citizen," beginning, "The family always came to church 
en prince" (p. 118, 1. 20). Note the life and movement suggested, 
the artistic value of the epithets, and the sly touches of humor. 

116 Beggar's Bush, a comedy by John Fletcher (1576-1625). 

117 8 See the hounds throw off, i.e. see them make a start in a 
hunt or race. 

118 20 -En prince, i.e. in princely style. 

119 21 'Change, Exchange, the place where the merchants, 
brokers, and bankers of a city meet at certain hours to transact 
business. In large cities like London and New York the Exchange 
is often the scene of wild excitement. 

119 30 Lord Mayor's Day, November 9, the day when the newly 
elected mayor is carried through the streets in a gorgeous coach, 
attended by a splendid retinue, on his way to Westminster, where he 
takes the oath of office. — See article on the Lord Mayor 's State in 
Timbs's Curiosities of London (1868). 

120 15 Curricle, a light, two-wheeled carriage, usually drawn by 
two horses abreast. 

120 15 Outriders, servants on horseback attending a carriage. 

123 The Widow and her Son. This sketch appeals so directly 
to the heart that it is almost impossible to criticise it. There could 
be no better proof of its merit. 

123 13 Sweet day, so pure, etc. 

" Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and skie ; 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 

For thou must die." *» 

The first stanza of Vertue in The Temple, by George Herbert (1593-1632). 

128 23 Entrapped by a press-gang. The press-gang was a 
detachment of seamen under the command of an officer empowered 
to force men into the naval service. The impressment of American 
sailors by the English was one cause of the War of 18 12. Ashton, 



NOTES 459 

in his Social Life in the Reign of Queen Anne, Vol. II., gives some 

interesting facts in regard to the impressment of seamen and soldiers. 

132 5 Babel, i.e. a place of noise and confusion. — See note on 

P- 54, 1- 34- 

132 19 Decent, respectable. This word signified originally suit- 
able, fitting ; it now means fair or well enough, and also free from 
immodesty. 

133 10 Beadle, an inferior parish officer in England, having 
various duties, one of which is the chastisement of petty offenders. 

135 The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. The lover of Shakes- 
peare cannot fail to enjoy this sketch ; it expresses so frankly the 
author's delight in Falstaff and his friends. In Shakespeare's King 
Henry IV. " Prince Hal" (afterwards Henry V.) and his companions — 
chief among whom is Sir John Falstaff, " fat Jack " — meet frequently 
at the Boar's Head Tavern, kept by Mistress Quickly. The reader 
must be familiar with this play and with the first scenes of King 
Henry V. if he would understand Irving's allusions. The Youth of 
Henry V. in A. C. Ewald's Stories from State Papers (1882) should 
be read by those who wish to estimate correctly the character of 
" Prince Hal." 

135 Mother Bombie, a play by John Lily, produced in 1594. — 
See note referring to Lily's Euphues, p. 11. 

137 21 Smelling to, a colloquial expression corresponding to 
smelling of. 

137 26 Cock Lane. In 1762 London was thrown into a state 
of great excitement by the report that a ghost had appeared in a 
house in Cock Lane, Smithfield. Dr. Johnson was among those 
who made investigations. The affair was found to be a trick resorted 
to for the purpose of obtaining money. 

137 26 Little Britain, a short street near Bartholomew's 
Hospital. 

137 28 Old Jewry. According to Stow, " a street so called of 
Jews some time dwelling there and near adjoining." The first syna- 
gogue in London was built at the northwest corner of Old Jewry. 

137 28 Guildhall and its two stunted giants. Guildhall is the 
council hall of the city of London, founded in 141 1, and restored 
after the fire of 1666. The " two stunted giants " are colossal figures 
of Gog and Magog which stand at one end of the hall. 

137 31 London Stone, probably a fragment of the milestone of 
the Romans, now preserved in Cannon Street, where it stands against 



460 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the wall of St. S within 's Church. There is evidence that it was 
placed in nearly the same spot over a thousand years ago, and it 
is believed to have been the great central milestone from which 
all the British roads radiated. 

137 32 Jack Cade, or John Cade, the leader — though perhaps 
not the originator — of a rebellion in England in 1450, during the 
reign of Henry VI. Cade and his followers entered London, and 
when riding in procession through the streets, the leader, who called 
himself " Mortimer," struck his sword on London Stone, saying : 
" Now is Mortimer lord of this city ! " A few days later his fol- 
lowers were dispersed and he was executed. 

138 3 Old Stow. John Stow, historian and antiquary, published 
a Survay of London in 1598. 

138 6 Sawtrie, an old form for psaltery, a stringed instrument 
used by the Hebrews. 

138 13 Billingsgate, the great fish market of London. Stow 
remarked in his Survay (1598) that this quarter had been a quay, if 
not a market, for nine hundred years. 

138 34 The Monument, a stone column, 202 feet in height, on 
Fish Street Hill, London, erected by Sir Christopher Wren to com- 
memorate the great fire of 1666. 

139 10 The great fire of London. In this fire, which occurred 
in September, 1666, — just after ravages of the plague, — two-thirds 
of the city was destroyed. 

139 15 Publicans, a term used in England to denote those who 
keep a public house of entertainment. Publican signifies in the 
first place a tax gatherer, and is so used in the New Testament. 

140 31 Virgil, Publius Virgilius (or Vergilius) Maro (B.C. 70-19), 
the most celebrated of Latin poets. His greatest work is the ALneid. 

140 32 Marlborough, John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough 
(1650-1722), a great general and an able' but unscrupulous states- 
man. He reached the height of his power during the reign of Queen 
Anne. With his name are associated the victories of Ramillies, 
Oudenarde, and Malplaquet. 

140 32 Turenne, Henri Vicomte de Turenne (1611-1675), a 
celebrated French general. 

141 1, 3 William Walworth . . . Wat Tyler. Wat Tyler was 
the leader of a revolt which occurred in England in 1381, in conse- 
quence of a poll tax. Sir William Walworth, the Mayor of Lon- 
don, killed Tyler while he was speaking to the king. 



NOTES 461 

141 4 Honorable blazon, honorable mention, or record. Blazon 
meant originally a shield, and then the heraldic bearings on a shield. 
Later it was applied to the art of describing or depicting heraldic 
bearings in the proper manner ; and finally the term came to signify 
ostentatiozis display and also description or record by words or other 
means. In Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 5, the Ghost, while talking with 
Prince Hamlet, says : 

" But this eternal blazon must not be 
To ears of flesh and blood." 

Eternal blazon signifies revelation or description of things pertaining 
to eternity. The noun blazon is seldom used now ; but the verb, in 
the sense of to publish, or make public, far and wide, is frequently 
used. 

141 5 Sovereigns of Cockney, i.e. sovereigns of London. Irving 
uses cockney in an unusual way. The term is a somewhat contemp- 
tuous name for a person born in London, "within the sound of 
Bow Bells," — the bells on the church of St. Mary le Bow, Cheap- 
side. The English aristocracy never consider themselves London- 
ers, although they have houses in the metropolis. Their homes are 
always in the country. 

141 10 Whilom drawer, formerly tapster. The word drawer 
occurs a number of times in Shakespeare's Henry V. Whilom is 
a favorite term with some of the older English poets, Spenser 
especially. 

142 23 Cock Lane ghost. — See note on p. 137, 1. 26. 

142 24 The apparition, etc. The apparition has vanished, 
apparently. I have found nothing in regard to it. The value of 
the regalia, or crown jewels, kept in the Tower is estimated at 
^3,000,000. — See note on p. 287, 1. 2: The Tower. 

143 14 Marry and amen, a strong expression for truly. Marry 
is supposed to have come from the habit of swearing by the Virgin 
Mary ; amen signifies trtdy, verily. 

144 5 Bully-rook, bully. 

144 10 Darkling. Rather dark seems to be Irving's meaning. 
Darkling is an old word signifying in the dark or becoming dark : 
" So out went the candle and we were left darkling." — Lear, Act I. 
Sc. 4, 1. 237. 

145 34 Scriblerus contemplated his Roman shield. The story 
of the pedant and his shield is told in the third chapter of the 



462 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works, and Discoveries of Mar- 
tinus Scriblerus, a satire that can be found in certain editions of 
the works of Pope, although it was probably written mostly by 
Arbuthnot. 

146 l Knights of the Round Table, etc. These knights were 
the followers of the famous King Arthur, who is said to have lived 
in Wales at the time of the Saxon invasion. He instituted the 
Round Table. According to the mediaeval legend, the Holy Grail, 
or Sangreal, was the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper. Many 
knights, including the followers of Arthur, sought for it, but it could 
be seen only by those who, like Galahad, were wholly pure in thought 
and deed. The story of King Arthur and of the search for the Holy 
Grail has been told by Tennyson in his Idylls of the King. 

146 24 Parcel-gilt, part gilt, or gilt on the embossed portions. 

148 3 Tedious brief. " A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus 
and his love Thisbe." — Shakespeare : Midsummer Night's Dream, 
Act V. Sc. i, 1. 56. 

148 10 Jack Straw, a leader associated with Wat Tyler in his 
rebellion. — See rhyme quoted by Irving on p. 141. 

148 25 The shield of Achilles is described in Homer's Iliad, 
Book XVIII. The poet's account of the scenes portrayed upon it 
has always aroused great interest. 

148 25 Portland vase, so called because it was the property of 
the Duchess of Portland. This valuable work of art was once the 
principal ornament of the Barberini palace in Rome, and is now in 
the British Museum. 

149 Westminster Abbey can be traced back to the early part 
of the seventh century. A large portion of the present edifice was 
completed in 1245. The western towers were added by Sir Chris- 
topher Wren. Many of the English sovereigns and large numbers 
of distinguished persons are buried in the Abbey. A brief account 
of the Abbey can be found in articles on London in standard cyclo- 
paedias. The following books contain interesting details : F. W. 
Farrar: Westminster Abbey (illustrated, 1897); W. J. Lof tie : West- 
minster Abbey (illustrated, 1891); H. G. Feasey : Westminster Abbey 
Historically Described (1899). 

149 9 Westminster School, a public school founded by Queen 
Elizabeth in 1560 and still in existence. In former times the 
Westminster boys were notorious for their rough behavior in the 
Abbey. 



NOTES 463 

149 17 Chapter-house, a house used for the meetings of the chap- 
ter — that is, the body of clergymen — connected with a cathedral. 

149 18 Doomsday Book (properly Domesday), the book contain- 
ing the survey of the lands of England made by an order of William 
the Conqueror. The name, which refers to the Day of the Last 
Judgment and the book then to be used, was given to this book 
because it was a conclusive authority on all matters with which it 
dealt. — See Murray's New English Dictionary. 

150 27 Quarto. — See note on Folio, p. 91, 1. 19. 

151 1 Literary catacomb. The catacombs in Rome are sub- 
terranean galleries which are supposed to have been formed chiefly 
between the second and the sixth century expressly for the burial of 
Christians. They often served as places of refuge for the Christians, 
and in later times many of the chambers were used as chapels. 

153 23 Robert Grosseteste, Bishop of Lincoln from 1235 to 
1253, had great influence during his own time and the two centuries 
following. 

153 30 Giraldus Cambrensis (ii46?-i22o?). 

153 34 Henry of Huntingdon (1084 ?— 1 155)- 

154 3 Joseph of Exeter, who lived about 1190, was one of the 
best of the mediaeval Latin poets. 

154 9 John Wallis. John Wales, Wellis, or Wallensis, a noted 
theologian, was regent master of the Franciscan schools at Oxford 
before 1260. In Paris, where he went as lecturer, he received the 
title of Arbor Vitce (Tree of Life). 

154 11 William of Malmesbury, an English historian who died 
about 1 143. His works are highly prized on account of his accuracy 
and critical judgment. 

154 11 Simeon of Durham, a monk who lived about 1130, was, 
for the most part, an industrious compiler rather than a historian. 

154 12. Benedict of Peterborough, monk, lived about 1193. A 
number of manuscripts were transcribed and added to the monastic 
library by his orders. 

154 12 John Hanvill, or Jean de Hauteville, a French poet 
who lived in the twelfth century. He left a Latin poem that was 
very popular during the two centuries following. 

154 20 Wynkyn de Worde, an assistant of William Caxton, 
the famous printer, who about 1470 introduced printing into England. 

155 6 Robert of Gloucester (1 260-1 300) wrote a metrical 
chronicle relating to England which bears his name. 



464 THE SKETCH BOOK 

155 8 Well of pure English undefiled. — See note on p. 92, 1. 17. 

156 4 As unintelligible ... as an Egyptian obelisk. The hiero- 
glyphics on an Egyptian obelisk are no longer undecipherable. 
From the Rosetta Stone, discovered in Lower Egypt in 1799, M. 
Champollion, a celebrated French scholar, was able to determine 
the meaning of these strange characters. His discovery was first 
made known in 1822, shortly after the Sketch Book was published. 

156 6 Runic inscriptions. Runes were letters or characters 
used by the nations of Northern Europe from an early period to the 
eleventh century. It was very difficult to acquire a knowledge of 
these characters, and for this reason they were supposed to possess 
magical properties. 

156 10 The good Xerxes. Xerxes was a famous king of Persia 
who invaded Greece with an immense army, but was defeated at the 
Battle of Salamis, B.C. 480. 

Herodotus says that when Xerxes saw all his forces before him " the whole 
Hellespont covered by the ships, and all the shores and plain of Abydos full 
of men, he wept. When asked the reason, he replied : ' Commiseration seized 
me when I considered how brief all human life is ; since of these, numerous 
as they are, not one shall survive the hundredth year.'" — Herodotus: 
Polymnia, Par. 44. 

156 18 Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. — See note on p. 95, 1. 26. 

156 18 Sackville's stately plays, a reference to Gorboduc, or 
Ferrex and Porrex, the first regular tragedy in English that ranks 
as literature. It was written by Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset 
( 1 536-1608). The Mirror for Magistrates was intended as a kind 
of poetical biography of distinguished men. Sackville wrote only 
the " Induction " and one of the poems. 

156 20 John Lily. — See note referring to Lily's Euphues, p. n. 

157 3 Perpetuated by a proverb. The word euphuism will 
always call to mind the works of Lily. This is probably what 
Irving alludes to. 

158 18 Libraries . . . containing three or four hundred thousand 
volumes. — See note on p. 90, 1. 14, and compare the great modern 
libraries with collections such as Irving mentions. 

159 11 A poor half-educated varlet. Besides the rudiments of 
English, Shakespeare gained during his school days some knowledge 
of Latin. Ben Jonson, a warm admirer of the great dramatist, said 
that he had " small Latin and less Greek." For works on Shakes- 
peare, see note on p. 303, 1. 17. 



NOTES 465 

159 13 Had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. 
Run, as used here, has a meaning similar to that in the expressions 
" run the rapids," " run the blockade." It means to travel through 
or past successfully, in spite of danger or difficulty. — See the note 
on deer-stealing, p. 310, 1. 5. 

161 1 The setting may occasionally be antiquated. There 
have been several attempts to modernize certain poems of Chaucer's, 
but true poetry can never be satisfactorily translated or paraphrased. 
With a little study a person of ordinary intelligence can find delight 
in reading Chaucer's works. 

161 14 Verger, the official who takes care of the interior of a 
church building. 

161 (footnote) Thorow, through. 

161 (footnote) Featly, dexterously, nimbly. 

162 Rural Funerals. A paper which shows Irving's skill as an 
artist. 

162 Here 's a few flowers, etc. Shakespeare : Cymbeline, Act 
IV. Sc. 2, 1. 283 (incorrectly quoted). 

162 19 White his shroud, etc. Hamlet, Act IV. Sc. 5, 1. 35. 

162 20 Larded, garnished, decked. 

163 23 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round, etc., the 
second stanza of The Dirge of Jephtha's Daughter in the Noble 
Numbers, by Robert Herrick (1 591-1674). Herrick is celebrated as 
a writer of lyrics. 

164 12 Sir Thomas Overbury (1581-1613). 

164 18 The Maid's Tragedy. The lines quoted are in Act I. 
Sc. 1. — See note on p. 97, 1. 2. 

164 31 Evelyn, John Evelyn (1620-1706), author of the 
famous Diary that bears his name. His Sylva is a book on 
forest trees. 

165 25 Umbratile, unreal, shadowy. 

166 24 Camden, William Camden (15 51 -1 623). The Britannica 
is a description of Great Britain written in Latin. 

167 1 Thomas Stanley (1625-1678). 

167 13 Lay a garland on my hearse. The Maid's Tragedy, 
Act II. Sc. 1. 

168 4 Lay her i' the earth. Shakespeare : Hamlet, Act V. 
Sc. 1, 1. 261. 

168 12 Sleep in thy peace, etc., the eleventh and thirteenth 
stanzas of The Dirge of Jephtha 's Daughter already mentioned. 



466 THE SKETCH BOOK 

169 3 With fairest flowers, etc. Shakespeare : Cymbeline, 
Act IV. Sc. 2, 1. 218. 

169 32 Jeremy Taylor (i 613-1667), Bishop of Down and Con- 
nor ; well known as the author of Holy Living, Holy Dying, and 
The Liberty of Prophesying. 

170 27 Each lonely place, etc. A free rendering of the last 
stanza in The Dirge in Cymbeline, by William Collins (1721-1759). 

174 24 Bright, Richard Bright (1 789-1 858), a distinguished 
English physician. 

175 1 Iffland, August Wilhelm Iffland (1 759-1814), a celebrated 
German actor and dramatist. 

177 Shall I not take mine ease, etc. Shakespeare : King 
Henry LV. Part I. Act III. Sc. 3, 1. 92. 

177 2 Pomme d'Or, Golden Apple. 

177 4 Table d'h6te. A table cfhdte meal is a repast served fo 
guests at a public house at a given hour and at a fixed price. 

179 12 Ecume de mer, sea foam (the same as the German 
Meerschaum). The name is given to a clay-like mineral, light 
enough to float in water, and also to the pipes made from it. 

180 The Spectre Bridegroom may be classed with the Rip Van 
Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow because it is distinctly a 
narrative, — not a description, — and because it has the element of 
humor and a suggestion of the supernatural. It differs from the 
other two sketches in the fact that the characters portrayed lack 
individuality, and that the touches descriptive of nature fail to suggest 
any particular locality. The scenes described in the Dutch stories 
were the delight of Irving when a boy, and the legends that form 
the basis of those narratives had lain so long in his mind that they 
had become saturated with his personality. The Spectre Bridegroom, 
while it is a good story, lacks the peculiar charm that comes from 
this intensely personal quality. 

180 Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. — See Ellis : 
Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, Vol. III. 1805. 

181 30 Heldenbuch (Book of Heroes), a collection of twenty 
poems in the German language, collected in the thirteenth or four- 
teenth century. The poems, one of which is the Niebelungen, deal 
with old Germanic legends and stories. 

182 3 Minnelieders. Minnelieder, the correct form, means love 
songs. Irving evidently refers to the minnesingers, the troubadours of 
Germany, who flourished during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 



NOTES 467 

183 6 Good cheer, the food that promotes good cheer. 

184 33 The fatted calf had been killed, an allusion to the 
parable of the Prodigal Son, Luke xv. 11-32. 

185 2 Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein, Rhine wine and old wine. 
185 3 Heidelberg tun. This tun, in the cellar of the Castle of 

Heidelberg, now in ruins, holds eight hundred hogsheads. 

185 5 Saus und Braus, riot and revelry. 

191 2 Hochheimer, a famous Rhine wine produced at Hoch- 
heim. The term hock was first applied to this wine. 

191 34 Leonora, Lenore, the heroine of a popular ballad by 
Gottfried August Burger (1 748-1794). The goblin horseman was 
Lenore's lover, who appeared to his mistress after his death and 
carried her off with him on horseback. 

192 31 Cresset, a kind of lantern consisting of a cup, perhaps 
of iron, that contained a coil of pitched rope, the end of which was 
lighted. 

196 8 Trencher, a wooden platter, originally a square piece of 
board, used at table in early times by people of all ranks. — See Cen- 
tury Dictionary. 

199 Westminster Abbey. The reader who would enjoy this 
sketch should forget to criticise, and should give himself up to the 
charm of Irving's organ-like periods. It would be difficult to find — 
even in De Quincey — a better example of writing in which sound 
and sense unite to produce a single impression. 

199 Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. This is incorrect. The 
stanza quoted by Irving is the thirty-second epigram in Chrestoleros : 
Seuen Bookes of Epigrames, by T. B. (Thomas Bastard), 1598. The 
book was reprinted by the Spenser Society in 1888. 

199 Westminster Abbey. — See note on p. 149. 

199 10 Westminster School. — See note on p. 149, 1. 9. 

200 30 Vitalis. Abbas. 1082 signifies Vitalis, Abbot, died 1082. 
204 29 Roubiliac, Louis Francis Roubiliac, French sculptor 

(1695-1762). 

206 9 Knights of the Bath. The Order of the Bath was estab- 
lished by George I. in 1725. It has been erroneously supposed to 
be the revival of an ancient order. 

207 16 The haughty Elizabeth. Irving's estimate of Elizabeth 
and Mary Stuart is that of an extreme partisan. Green's interesting 
chapters on Elizabeth and her times, in his History of the English 
People, present a different view. 



468 THE SKETCH BOOK 

208 6 For in the silent grave, etc. These lines can be found in 
Beaumont and Fletcher's play, Thierry and Theodoret, Act IV. Sc. i. 

209 19 The great chair of coronation. 

" At the west end of the chapel [the chapel of St. Edward the Confessor] 
are the two coronation chairs, still used at the coronations of the sovereigns 
of Great Britain, — one containing the famous stone of Scone on which the 
Scottish kings were wont to be crowned, and which Edward I. carried away 
with him as an evidence of his absolute conquest of Scotland ; ... it is simply 
a block of reddish-gray sandstone of the western coasts of Scotland, squared 
and smoothed. ' In this chair and on this stone every English sovereign from 
Edward I. to Queen Victoria has been inaugurated' [Stanley]. The other 
chair was made for the coronation of Mary, Queen of William III. Between 
the two are placed the great two-handed sword borne before Edward III. in 
France." — Wheatley and Cunningham : London Past and Present. 

210 8 The effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. The figure 
was plated with silver except the head, which was solid. At the 
dissolution of the monasteries, in 1536 and 1539, the figure was 
stripped of its plating and the head stolen. 

211 14 Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) is one of the masters 
of English prose. His principal works are : Religio Medici, Hydrio- 
taphia, or Urn Burial, and Enquiry into Vulgar Errors. The pas- 
sages quoted can be found in the fifth chapter of the Hydriotaphia. 
See Browne's Religio Medici, Urn Burial, etc., edited by John 
Addington Symonds {The Camelot Classics), 1886. 

211 24 His empty sarcophagus. Irving had doubtless seen 
this sarcophagus, as it has been in the British Museum since 1802. 
For an account of Alexander the Great, see Plutarch's Lives. 

211 25 The Egyptian mummies, etc. At the time when this 
passage was written and earlier, many strange substances were used 
as medicines; among them a substance known as mummy. — See 
Century Dictionary. 

211 26 Cambyses, King of the Medes and Persians, conquered 
Egypt about B.C. 525. 

211 27 Mizraim, the Hebrew name for Egypt. 

211 27 Pharaoh (literally great house), a title given to the Egyp- 
tian kings. 

212 8 As a tale that is told. Psalms xc. 9. 

213 Christmas. Of the five articles on Christmas, this is by 
far the most commonplace. Sentimental reflections are not inter- 
esting except when, as in Lamb's Essays, they are interfused with 



NOTES 469 

delightful humor, or when, as in Irving's Westminster Abbey, the 
author reaches the height of poetic expression. 

The festival of Christmas properly begins on the evening of the 
24th of December, and lasts till Twelfth Night, the evening of 
Epiphany. An exhaustive account of the English festival can be 
found in A Right Merrie Christmas !! ! „by John Ashton. The 
author quotes an order proclaimed by Charles I., directing noble- 
men, bishops, and others to " resort to their several counties where 
they usually reside, and there keep their habitations and hospitality." 

218 5 Waits (formerly written wayghtes), a name still applied in 
England to bands of musicians who at Christmas time go from house 
to house, singing at the doors and asking a gratuity. Formerly the 
term was applied to musicians and serenaders generally. 

218 8 When deep sleep, etc. Job iv. 13, and xxxiii. 15. 

218 16 Telling the night watches, etc. Milton : Comus, 1. 347. 

218 20 Some say that ever, etc. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 1, lines 
158-164. (There are several errors in Irving's version.) 

218 34 Strike, blast, destroy. 

218 25 Takes, i.e. harms by supernatural power. 

220 The Stage Coach. The description of the English stage 
coachman (p. 222, " He has commonly," etc.) is full of life, and 
the arrival of the boys (p. 225, "They had been looking," etc.) is 
described with such simplicity and naturalness that one can hardly 
think of the passage as a piece of the writer's art. 

220 Omne bene, etc. Freely rendered, this might read : 

" Now for jollity! 

No fear of penalty ; 
The time has come for play ! 

The hour arrives 

When, quick as thought, 
Our books aside we lay." 

220 19 Buxom, vigorous, lively. This word, which originally 
signified yielding or tractable, is now used chiefly in the sense of 
stout and rosy, and is applied especially to women and girls. 

221 ]3 Bucephalus, the favorite horse of Alexander the Great, 
used in all his campaigns. His master was the only person who 
could ride him. 

222 1 Craft or mystery. Both words signify trade, handicraft. 
222 15 Small clothes, knee-breeches. 



470 THE SKETCH BOOK 

223 4 Battening, feeding gluttonously. The term is seldom 
used literally except in relation to animals ; as in, " Battening our 
flocks." — Milton. 

223 32 Juntos. The word is applied usually to a secret council 
composed of statesmen or politicians. 

224 4 Cyclops (both singular and plural). The Cyclops were 
said to be a race of giants, each of whom had but one eye, and that 
in the middle of the forehead. They inhabited Sicily and worked 
for Vulcan under Mt. Etna. Ulysses' adventure with a Cyclops is 
described in the ninth book of the Odyssey. 

224 23 In twelve days. — See note on Christmas, p. 213. 

224 25 Square it among pies and broth. This probably 
means are used in the right proportions in pies and broth ; possibly, 
square it may refer to the number of the ingredients, four. 

224 31 Dice and cards benefit the butler. It was the custom 
for gamesters, at Christmas time, to put a part of their winnings 
into a box called " the butler's box," as a present for the butler. 

226 14 Smokejack, a contrivance for turning a spit. 

226 27 Poor Robin. The Poor Robin's Almanacs were begun 
in 1 661 or 1662. They probably originated with Robert Herrick, 
the poet. 

227 l Post-chaise. A post is one of a series of stations estab- 
lished for the convenience of passengers on a recognized route. A 
post-chaise ox post-coach is a public carriage, usually with four wheels, 
which goes from one station to another. As mail was originally 
carried on these established routes, the viot($. post was used in connec- 
tion with the mail system, and the carrier of mail was known as the 
postman. To travel post means to travel with post-horses, and, 
figuratively, to travel with haste. 

228 Christmas Eve. Perhaps nothing that Irving has written 
is more characteristic than this sketch and the two immediately 
following. His delight in social intercourse, his love of his fellow- 
beings, his quick sympathy with youth and gayety, — all these find 
expression in the Christmas sketches. 

228 Blesse . . . from, protect from. 

228 Hight, called. 

228 Curfew time, bedtime. The curfew (Fr. couvre-feu) was 
originally a bell rung as a signal that the inhabitants should 
cover their fires and go to bed. It was instituted by William the 
Conqueror. 






NOTES 471 

228 Prime, dawn; originally the first quarter of the artificial 
day, i.e. from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m. 

228 Cartwright, William Cartwright (1611-1643). 

228 16 Honest Peacham, Henry Peacham (1576?-! 643?), 
author of The Compleat Gentleman. 

228 17 Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chester- 
field (1694-1773), best known as the author of the Letters to his Son, 
Philip Stanhope. Peacham advocated country life, insisting espe- 
cially on sports and athletics, while Chesterfield was interested 
solely in fashionable life in cities. 

229 18 Squire (the same as esquire), a title of dignity next 
below knight and above gentleman. 

229 28 Crest, a distinguishing mark originally worn by the 
armed knight, not on the shield but above it. The crest is still 
used on plate, liveries, etc. 

230 4 Stomacher, an ornamental covering for theibreast. 

231 7 Mongrel, puppy, whelp, etc. Goldsmith : Elegy on the 
Death of a Mad Dog, stanza 4. 

231 11 The little dogs, etc. Shakespeare : King Lear, Act III. 
Sc. 6, 1. 65. 

231 28 Restoration, the reestablishment of the monarchy in 
England, on the return of Charles II, in 1660. 

232 4 Imitation of nature in modern gardening. Speaking 
of English gardens in the latter part of the seventeenth and the first 
part of the eighteenth century, Lecky says : " The trees were habitu- 
ally carved into cones, or pyramids, or globes, into smooth, even 
walls, or into fantastic groups of men and animals." Early in the 
eighteenth century a new style of gardening came into vogue, a 
style that gave free scope to the beauties of nature. 

232 26 Hoodman blind, an old name for blindman's buff. 

232 28 Yule clog, the same as yule log or yule block. The word 
yule, now applied to Christmas, is derived from an Anglo-Saxon 
term, the name of one of the winter months. — See Irving's footnote, 
pp. 234, 235. 

232 29 Mistletoe. In Norse mythology Balder, the sun-god, 
was killed by an arrow made of mistletoe. 

233 31 Hall. The hall was the chief room in a mediaeval 
castle. There guests were entertained, meals were cooked and 
eaten, and there most of the men of the household slept. The 
private apartment in a castle was called the bower. There is an 



472 THE SKETCH BOOK 

interesting description of a hall in the old Anglo-Saxon poem, 
Beowulf. — See also Scott's description of Cedric the Saxon's hall, 
in Ivanhoe. 

235 28 Finding him to be perfectly orthodox. The Puritans 
made every effort to do away with the celebration of Christmas. 
Mince pie, known as " Christmas pie," was particularly obnoxious 
to them. In his youth Irving had probably come in contact with 
many persons who shared these prejudices. Sixty or seventy years 
ago Christmas was not observed in New England or in other parts 
of the United States by persons of Puritan descent. 

236 26 Punch and Judy, a puppet show in which a comical 
little hunchbacked Punch quarrels with his wife Judy, and in 
consequence is carried off by a devil in red. The word Punch is 
abbreviated from ptmchinello. 

237 19 Factotum, i.e. one who does work of all kinds. 
237 20 Jumping with, agreeing with, falling in with. 

237 21 Humor, whim, fancy. The word humor first signified 
moisture, especially the fluid of animal bodies. The ancient physi- 
cians believed that there were in the human body four fluids or 
humors: blood, phlegm, yellow bile or choler, and black bile or 
melancholy. On the relative proportion of these the temperament 
and health depended. Hence humor came to mean the state of the 
mind in a general way, and then, changing or whimsical states of 
mind. Consult some standard dictionary for the various meanings 
of the word. 

238 12 Harp in hall. The harper was a welcome guest in the 
castle of the Middle Ages. 

238 22 Rigadoon, a lively dance for one couple. 

238 29 Oxonian, a student or graduate of Oxford University. 

239 12 Waterloo. At Waterloo, a village in Belgium, Napoleon 
was defeated by English and German troops commanded by Wel- 
lington. This battle, which took place on the i8th of June, 1815, 
virtually ended Napoleon's career. 

239 18 Troubadour. The troubadours were a school of poets 
who flourished from the eleventh to the end of the thirteenth cen- 
tury in Southern France and Northern Italy. Their poems dealt 
largely with love, and were intended to be sung to an instrumental 
accompaniment. 

239 23 Herrick. — See note on p. 163, 1. 23. 

240 27 No spirit, etc. — See text, p. 218, 1. 23. 



NOTES 473 

241 5 Tester, a canopy over a bed, supported by the bed-posts. 

242 Christmas Day. — See note on Christmas, p. 213. 

242 Herrick. — See note on p. 163, 1. 23. The lines quoted 
occur in a Christmas Carol, beginning, " What sweeter music can 
we bring ? " 

244 18 Wassaile bowles, i.e. convivial bowls. The noun was- 
sail signified carouse, and was used also as the name of the liquor 
used on the occasion. ' 

246 2 Sir Anthony Fitzherbert (1470-1538), judge and author. 

247 2 Markham's Country Contentments. — See note on 
p. 247, 1. 31. 

247 3 Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne (1519?- 
1592). Cockayne was a great authority on hunting. 

247 4 Izaak Walton's Angler is one of the few pieces of older 
English prose that are still somewhat widely read. Hazlitt con- 
sidered it one of the best pastorals in the language. Walton was 
born in 1593 and died in 1683. 

247 20 Old Tusser, Thomas Tusser (1520?-! 580?), poet and 
writer on agriculture. 

247 31 Deep, solemn mouths. Mouth signifies bark. The 
passage referred to reads: 

" If you would have your kennel for sweetness of cry, then you must 
compound it of some large dogs, that have deep, solemn mouths, and are 
swift in spending, which must, as it were, bear the base in the consort; 
then a double number of roaring and loud-ringing mouths, which must be the 
counter-tenor ; then some hollow, plain, sweet mouths, which must bear the 
mean or middle part ; and so with these three parts of music, you shall 
make your cry perfect." 

Gervase Markham (1568?-! 637) was a prolific writer on many 
subjects. His Country Contentmeitts treats of sports and also of 
domestic subjects. Shakespeare describes the hounds and their cry 
in his Midsummer Night's Dream, Act IV. Sc. 1, 1. 124: " My hounds 
are bred," etc. 

248 31 Black-letter. — See note on p. 28, 1. 30. 

248 33 Editions of Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde. — See note 
on p. 154, 1. 20. 

249 8 Adust. This word now signifies inflamed, fiery. Irving 
gives it a meaning similar to the old significance, gloomy. 

249 21 Druids, an order of priests which in ancient times 



474 THE SKETCH BOOK 

existed among the Gauls, the Britons, and other branches of the 
Celtic race. 

249 24 Fathers of the Church, the chief ecclesiastical authorities 
of the first centuries after Christ. — See Fathers mentioned in note 
on p. 251, 1. 26. 

250 28 Cremona fiddles, superior violins which were formerly 
made at Cremona, in Italy. 

251 26 Theophilus of Cesarea (died a.d. 412), Bishop of 
Alexandria; St. Cyprian (a.d. 200?-2 58), Bishop of Carthage; St. 
Chrysostom (a.d. 35o?-407), Archbishop of Constantinople; St. 
Augustine (a.d. 354-430), Bishop of Hippo, the most illustrious of 
the Latin Fathers of the Church. He has told the story of his life 
in his Confessions. 

252 19 Prynne, William Prynne (1600-1669), author and poli- 
tician. At one time Prynne suffered severely for his zeal as a 
Puritan, but later he opposed Cromwell and did all he could to 
further the Restoration. 

252 20 Roundheads. During the reign of Charles I. the nick- 
name Roundheads was given to the Puritans, who wore their hair 
short. They were so called in opposition to the Cavaliers, or 
Royalists, who wore their hair long. 

254 20 Poor Robin. — See note on p. 226, 1. 27. 

254 25 Duke Humphry. " To dine with Duke Humphrey " 
signified to have no dinner at all. — See Wheeler's Dictionary of 
Noted Names of Fiction. 

254 26 Squire Ketch, Jack Ketch, i.e. the hangman. — See 
Wheeler's Dictionary. 

254 30 Manor-houses. A manor-house is properly the permanent 
residence of a lord or nobleman. 

254 32 Brawn, the flesh of a boar salted and prepared. 

256 23 Christmas box, a box, usually of earthenware, in which 
contributions of money were collected at Christmas by apprentices 
and others. The box when full was broken and the contents shared. 
— See Murray's A T ew English Dictionary. 

257 2 Home-brewed, beer or ale made at home. 

258 3 Pandean pipes. The Pandean pipe is a primitive wind 
instrument, so called because it was said to have been invented by 
Pan, the god of shepherds. 

258 5 Smart, spruce, showily dressed. Consult one of the 
standard dictionaries for the various meanings of this word. 



NOTES 475 

259 Withers's Juvenilia. George Wither, or Withers (1588- 
1677), poet and pamphleteer. 

259 8 Just in this nick, etc. From A Ballad upon a Wedding, 
a delightful poem, by Sir John Suckling (1609-1642). 

260 20 Belshazzar's parade. Daniel v. 1-4. 

2614 Holbein's portraits. Hans Holbein, the Younger (1497- 
1554?), one of the most noted of German painters. 

261 4 Albert Diirer's prints. Albrecht Diirer (1471-1528) was 
a celebrated painter and engraver, born in Nuremberg. 

261 14 The Conquest of England by William of Normandy, in 
1066. 

262 6 Caput apri, etc. The boar's head I bring, giving praises 
to the Lord. Qui estis in convivio, who are present at the feast. 

263 (footnote) Quot estis in convivio, as many as are present, 
etc. Let us servire cantico, serve with a song. In Reginensi Atrio, 
In the king's hall. 

264 16 Humorist, eccentric, whimsical person. — See note on 
p. 237, 1. 21. 

265 15 Wassail Bowl. — See note on p. 244, 1. 18. 

265 (footnote) Roasted crabs are crab apples. The term occurs 
occasionally in Shakespeare's plays. 

266 13 Chanson, song. 

267 6 Slow hound, sleuth-hound. 

268 25 Isis. The river Isis joins the Thames not far from 
Oxford. 

268 26 Alphabet of faces, i.e. a long or complete series of 
expressions. — See Murray's New English Dictionary . 

269 14 A rather broad story out of Joe Miller. The book 
referred to is entitled Joe Miller's Jests, or the Wit's Vade Mecum, 
published in 1739. An actor, Joseph Miller (1 684-1 738), was the 
hero of three of the jests, but there was no propriety in giving his 
name to the entire collection. 

270 4 Mock fairies about Falstaff. Shakespeare : Merry 
Wives of Windsor, Act V. Sc. 4 and Sc. 5. 

270 21 Weazen, thin, withered. 

272 32 Mummery, or masking. A mummery or mask might 
be merely a frolic in which those taking part wore masks, or it 
might be an artistic performance which combined acting, recitation, 
singing, and instrumental music, given with an elaborate setting 
and elegant costumes. Queen Elizabeth was exceedingly fond of 



476 THE SKETCH BOOK 

entertainments of this kind. Milton's Comus is the most celebrated 
mask in English literature. Ben Jonson's masks are also noted. 

273 14 Covenanters. An agreement was made by the Scot- 
tish Parliament in 1638, and by the English Parliament in 1643, to 
preserve the reformed religion in Scotland, and to extirpate Catholi- 
cism and Episcopacy. This agreement was called the Covenant, 
and those supporting it were known as Covenanters. 

273 20 Robin Hood, an English outlaw, the hero of many bal- 
lads, said to have lived in the forest of Sherwood in Notting- 
hamshire. His name is connected with different periods, from 
1 1 90 to 1300 and later, but his actual existence has never been 
proved. Little John, Friar Tuck, and Maid Marian were among his 
followers. 

277 Guido Vaux, Guydo Fauxe, or Guy Fawkes, was a conspira- 
tor who, with others, plotted to blow up the king, the lords, and the 
commons on the 5th of November, 1605. The plot originated with 
Robert Catesby, a Roman Catholic, who, with others of the same 
faith, was exasperated at the intolerant and persecuting spirit of 
James I. and his ministers. The conspiracy is known as the 
Gunpowder Plot. 

277 William 0' the Wisp, or Will-o'-the-wisp (the same as Jack- 
o'-lantern), was a malicious sprite supposed to lead wanderers astray. 
The superstition originated in the phosphorescent light, the ignis 
fatuus, which may sometimes be seen over marshy land. 

277 Robin Goodfellow, a playful, mischievous elf ; the same as 
Puck. 

277 Fletcher. — See note on p. 97, 1. 2. 

278 18 Chapel of the Knights Templars. This building, 
known as the " Temple Church," has been carefully restored. It is 
one of the most interesting monuments in London. The rest of 
the ground once belonging to the Templars is now occupied by the 
Inns of Court. The district is called " The Temple." The Knights 
Templars were a military order founded at Jerusalem, whose special 
duty it was to protect pilgrims on their way to the holy shrines. 

280 20 Judicial Astrology. Astrology is the art of judging of 
the influence of the stars upon human affairs. It was much in vogue 
during the Middle Ages, and even in these days certain persons 
have confidence in its predictions. Natural astrology predicts such 
occurrences as changes in the weather ; judicial astrology assumes 
to foretell the fate of nations and of individuals. 



NOTES 477 

280 20 Geomancy was the art of foretelling events by means of 
lines and dots on the surface of the earth. 

280 20 Necromancy, commonly known as the black art, assumed 
to make predictions by means of communication with the dead. 

281 10 Arch-magO {archi-mage is the usual form), chief magician. 

281 23 Decayed, fallen as to social condition. 

282 15 Gentle, noble. The word comes originally from the 
Latin gens, which means clan ox family ; and gentle signified, at first, 
of good or noble family. Now, the gentry in England are persons of 
respectable family, though not belonging to the nobility. 

282 20 Charter House. Bacon called the institution a " triple 
good," because it was an asylum for poor householders, and also 
an educational and a religious institution. It was endowed in 1611, 
and occupied the site of a Carthusian monastery ; hence the name 
Charter House, a corruption of Chartreuse. Among the eminent 
men who received their early education at this institution are 
Addison, Steele, John Wesley, and Thackeray. 

282 32 Stow. — See note on p. 138, 1. 3. 

283 2 Hospital signified originally a place for shelter or enter- 
tainment. The word host is akin to it in meaning. 

283 22 Apocryphal, of doubtful authority, fictitious. The 
apocryphal books are writings received by certain Christians as part 
of the Holy Scriptures, but rejected by others. 

284 Grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell), i.e. 
venerable cockneys, or old Londoners. — See note on p. 141, 1. 5. 

284 Nash. Thomas Nash (i564?-i6oi), wit and dramatist. 

284 1 Great city of London. — See note on p. 75, 1. 31. 

286 24 Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday (the 
first day of Lent), has sometimes been called "Pancake Tuesday" 
on account of the custom mentioned by Irving. 

286 25 Michaelmas, the feast of the Archangel Michael, cele- 
brated on the 29th of September. 

286 26 Burn the pope on the fifth of November, a reference to 
the celebration by Protestants of the discovery of the Gunpowder 
Plot. — See note on p. 277 : Guido Vaux. 

286 34 St. Paul's, a famous London cathedral, begun in 1675 
according to designs by Sir Christopher Wren. The dome is one 
of the most imposing in existence. The present structure is built 
on the site of an older cathedral destroyed in the fire of 1666. For 
a description of the famous buildings of the metropolis, see 



478 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Curiosities of London, by Timbs, and London Past and Present, by 
Wheatley and Cunningham. 

287 2 St. Dunstan's clock. The old church of St. Dunstan's 
in the West had a projecting clock, and two figures looking "like 
savages or Hercules," who on the hours and the quarters struck the 
bells with their clubs. It is said that the removal of these figures 
drew tears from the eyes of Charles Lamb. 

287 2 The Monument. — See note on p. 138, 1. 34. 

287 2 The lions in the Tower. The ancient palace citadel 
known as the " Tower of London " consists of a number of buildings 
enclosed in battlemented and moated walls. While it was a state 
prison many persons of note suffered imprisonment and death within 
its walls. Wild beasts were kept in the Lion Tower from the time 
of Henry III. until 1834. 

287 3 Wooden giants in Guildhall. — See note on p. 137, 1. 28. 

287 13 Full-bottomed wigs, wigs that were full and large at the 
bottom. 

287 15 Lappets. A lappet is a "little lap, flap, or pendant, 
especially on a coat or headdress." — See Century Dictionary. 

288 2 Robert Nixon, known as the " Cheshire Prophet," prob- 
ably nourished about 1620. He is said to have been an idiot who 
at intervals delivered vague prophecies of future events. 

288 3 Mother Shipton, the nickname of a Welsh woman living 
in the reign of Henry VIII., who was believed to have foretold many 
important events. 

288 18 Cheek by jole (or jowl), i.e. side by side. Jole means 
cheek or jaw ; hence the expression means literally cheek by cheek. 

288 25 Wonderful events : 

George III. died Jan. 29, 1820, and was succeeded by his son George IV.; 
Edward, Duke of Kent, brother of George IV., died the same year; and 
on Feb. 13, 1820, the Duke of Berry, the second nephew of Louis XVIII. , 
was murdered by Louvel; in 181 6 there was a riot after a meeting held 
at Spa-fields; on the 16th of August, 18 19, occurred the Manchester, or 
Peterloo, massacre; the Cato Street conspiracy — a plot to murder the 
king's ministers — was discovered in 1820; during the same year Queen 
Caroline, the wife of George IV., returned to England from Italy. 

289 10 Whittington and his Cat. The " history " is told in an 
old English ballad. When about to run away from his master, 
Whittington, an ill-used boy, heard the Bow Bells saying : " Turn 
again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London ! " Later, the prophecy 



.VOTES 

of the bells came true. — See Webster's International Dictionary ; 
A'ottd J\~£7?:es in Fistion. 

291 5 Bacchus and Momus. Bacchus, or Dionysus, was the 
god of fertility, especially the god of wine ; Momus was the god of 
censure and mockery, in Greek mythology. 

291 13 Broke the head, i.e. broke the skin of the head. 

291 32 Gammer Gurton's Needle, an early English comedy 
attributed to John Still (i 543-1607). 

293 9 St. Bartholomew's Fair, a famous fair formerly held at 
Smithfield, London. The original grant named the e i c: St Bar- 
tholomew (September :. New Style) and the two days succeeding. 
The last fair was held in 1855. 

293 10 Lord Mayor's Day. — See note on p. 119, 1. 30. 

294 25 Temple Bar, a famous gateway opposite the Temple. 
(See note referring to p. 27S, 1. 1S.1 Formerly when the sovereign 

:;::ed London he asked permission of the Lord Mayor before pass- 
ing the gateway. The Bar was removed in 1S78. 

296 11 The Miss Lambs. The Hisses Lamb is the form more 
commonly used at present. 

296 32 Kean, Edmund Kean <:->- : -:5;; . a noted English 
actor. 

296 39 Edinburgh Review, founded at Edinburgh in 1S02, by 
Jeffrey, Sidney Smith, and^others. 

297 34 Rout, fashionable assembly, evening party. 

298 2-2 Quality binding. Quality signifies high social position. 
The expression probably means something like fashionable venter. 

302 Strattord-on-Avon. It is the author's genuine love of 
Shakespeare that makes this article interesting. 

302 Garrick, David Garrick (1717-1779), actor, poet, and 
dramatist. 

302 it Shall I not take mine ease, etc. Shakespeare : First 
Part of K: IV. Act III. Sc J. L v. 

303 B The Jubilee, a series of entertainments in honor of 
Shakespeare, given in Stratford in 1769 ; devised and arranged by 
David Garrick. 

303 it I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. The 
present condition of the Stratford memorials of Shakespeare is 
described in the following extract : 

•■ At Stratford, the Birthplace, which was acquired by the public in 1 5_ 
and converted into a museum, is. with Anne Hathaway*s cottage [Anne 



480 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Hathaway was the. poet's wife] (which was acquired by the Birthplace 
Trustees in 1892), a place of pilgrimage for visitors from all parts of the 
globe. . . . The site of the demolished New Place [Shakespeare's last resi- 
dence, bought in 1597], with the gardens, was also purchased by public sub- 
scription in 1861, and now forms a public garden. Of a new memorial 
building on the river-bank at Stratford, consisting of a theatre, picture 
gallery, and library, the foundation stone was laid April 23, 1877." — Sidney 
Lee: William Shakespeare [illustrated], Chap, xviii. 

For general information in regard to Shakespeare, the following 
books may be consulted, — Edward Dowden : Shakspere Primer 
(1878) and Shakspere ; a Critical Study of his Mind and Art(i&j6) ; 
Halliwell-Phillipps : Outlines of the Life of Shakespeare (1889) ; 
George Brandes : William Shakespeare (1898) ; Sidney Lee : Life of 
William Shakespeare [illustrated] (1899) ; W. J. Rolf e : Shakespeare 
the Boy (1896). 

303 18 House where Shakespeare was born. The house 
referred to, known as the " Birthplace," is in Henley Street. It is 
probable — not certain — that the poet was born there. Nothing 
remains of the original structure but the cellar and a portion of the 
woodwork. The articles mentioned by Irving are of course spurious. 

304 4 Rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh. Raleigh delighted 
in smoking at a time when the practice was almost unknown in 
England. Irving doubtless had in mind the anecdote which relates 
that on one occasion a servant was so terrified at seeing the smoke 
issue from Sir Walter's mouth that he threw over him the ale he 
was bringing, and rushed downstairs shouting that his master was 
on fire. 

304 8 Shakespeare's mulberry tree. It is known that the poet 
planted an orchard in Stratford some time before 1602, and there is 
a tradition that he planted a certain mulberry tree with his own 
hands. 

304 29 The Santa Casa of Loretto, the " holy house," said to 
have been occupied by the Virgin Mary previous to the birth of 
Christ, and to have been miraculously removed to Loretto, Italy, in 
1291. 

305 15 He lies buried in the chancel. Shakespeare had a 
legal right to burial in the chancel, the customary burial place of 
the owners of the tithes of a parish. It was, however, the practice 
at Stratford to transfer the bones after a time to the charnel house. 
The epitaph on the poet's tomb doubtless protected his remains, for 






XOTES 4S1 

they have never been disturbed. — See Hallivvell-Phillipps : Outlines 
of the Life of Shakespeare, Vol. I. p. 268. 

307 3 The long interval, etc. Shakespeare's writings have 
never been neglected. Between 161 6 (the year of his death) and 
1642, two folio editions of his works were published, a convincing 
proof of the interest taken in his productions. There is abundant 
evidence of his popularity after the revival of the drama at the time 
of the Restoration. — See Dowden: Shakspere Primer, Chap. vii. 

308 7 A flat stone. The original stone has been removed, but 
the old inscription has been cut upon the new stone. It is not 
likely that the crude lines were composed by Shakespeare, but 
doubtless they express his sentiment in regard to his remains. 

308 26 Fifty-three years. Fifty-two is correct. 

309 18 John Combe was a rich inhabitant of Stratford, who, at 
his death, left Shakespeare ^5. There is a tradition that the poet 
alienated him by composing some doggerel verse on his practice of 
lending money at ten or twelve per cent. (Until comparatively 
recent times it was considered morally wrong to take interest for 
money lent.) 

310 5 Deer-stealing. There is a tradition that Shakespeare 
was obliged to leave Stratford and go to London because he was 
prosecuted for stealing deer from the park of Sir Thomas Lucy. 
(See note on p. 98, 1. 4.) Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps says of the 
tradition, " That it had a solid basis of fact cannot admit of a 
reasonable doubt." To prove that the poet's act was one easily 
condoned in his day, his biographer states that for generations the 
students of Oxford had been the most notorious poachers in all 
England. 

310 10 A rough pasquinade (lampoon). It is not probable 
that Shakespeare wrote the lines referred to. 

311 3 Justice Shallow, a character in the Second Part of 
Henry IV., and in the Merry Wives of Windsor. 

311 5 White luces in the quarterings. Shakespeare : Merry 
Wives of Windsor, Act I. Sc. 1, 1. 16. The quarterings are the- 
compartments — often four — into which a shield is divided if it 
bears several coats of arms. 

311 19 He might have as daringly transcended, etc. It is 
evident that Irving knew little of Shakespeare the man. The 
poet's management of his financial affairs proves him to have 
been possessed of practical ability and common sense. As a 



482 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dramatist he wisely disregarded the so-called " unities " of the 
classical school, but at the same time in his greatest works he 
observed carefully the laws that underlie unity of dramatic action. 
His use of the sources in Lear and Macbeth reveals something of 
his artistic method. 

311 (footnote) A proof of Shakespeare's random habits. 
Shakespeare could not have managed his affairs so wisely had 
he not been on the whole a man of good habits. 

312 l The old mansion of Charlecote. Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps 
says : 

" Although the whole structure has been seriously modernized, the back 
especially having been transformed, the front exterior still retains the general 
characteristics of the original structure. . . . [The gate-house] is essentially 
in the state in which it would have been recognized by the now celebrated 
poachers of. 1585." 

316 5 Noble forest meditations of Jaques. — See As You Like 
Lt, Act II. Sc. 7. The best known of these "meditations" begins: 
"All the world's a stage." The adjective noble does not properly 
apply to them. 

316 19 Under the greenwood tree. Shakespeare: As You 
Like Lt, Act II. Sc. 5, 1. 1. 

316 28 Stone quoins, stones that mark the exterior angle of a 
building. 

317 20 You have a goodly dwelling, etc. Shakespeare: 
Second Part of Henry LV. Act V. Sc. 3, 1. 6. 

319 4 Make a Star Chamber matter of it. The Star Chamber 
was a court of civil and criminal jurisdiction, at Westminster, which 
administered justice in cases of conspiracy, riot, and other offenses, 
especially such as affected the crown. Of course, poaching could 
not be a " Star Chamber matter." 

319 8 Justice of the peace, and coram. Slender intends to 
say, justice of the peace and of the quorum ; for Shallow held this 
position. (See the note under quorum in Webster' 's Lnternational 
Dictionary.) Coram means in the presence of before. 

319 9 Custalorum, probably a corruption of custos rotulorum, 
keeper of the rolls. 

319 10 Ratalorum, suggested no doubt by rotulorum. 

319 11 Armigero, armor bearer, or esquire. 

319 21 Take your vizaments in that, i.e. give that due 
consideration. 



NOTES 483 

319 26 Sir Peter Lely. — See note on p. 99, 1. 20. 

320 13 Roses, rosettes. 

321 1 A cane-colored beard. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I. 
Sc. 4, 1. 21. Cain-colored is correct. As used by Shakespeare, the 
term means a beard such as that in which Cain was represented in 
old paintings and tapestries — of the color known technically as 
"red." Of course Irving misunderstood the word. 

322 3 Whippers-in, huntsmen who keep the hounds from 
wandering, whipping them if it is necessary. 

322 19 Last year's pippin. Second Part of Henry IV. Act V. 
Sc. 2, 1. 2. 

323 29 Fair Rosalind, the chief female character in As You 
Like It. 

324 15 A crowded corner in Westminster Abbey. There is a 
monument to Shakespeare's memory in the Poets' Corner. 

325 9 The literary pilgrim of every nation. In 1897 and 1898 
the Shakespeare memorials in Stratford were visited by nearly fifty 
thousand persons, representing about forty nationalities. — See 
Sidney Lee : Life of William Shakespeare, Chap, xviii. 

326 Traits of Indian character. Irving's chivalric spirit, 'as 
exhibited in this paper, is admirable, but his remarks lack weight, 
because at the time when the sketch was written he was not inti- 
mately acquainted with the red man. 

For information in regard to the Indians, and for an account of the 
dealings of white men with them in the United States, the following books 
can be consulted: Annual Report of the U. S. Board of Indian Commis- 
sioners; Journal of the Military Service Institution of the U. S., Vol. II. 
No. 6 (1881), devoted to Our Indian Question; The Red Man and the 
White Man in North America from its Discovery to the Present Time, by 
George E. Ellis (1882) ; The Indian Side of the Indian Question, by 
William D. Barrows, D.D. (1887) ; A Century of Dishonor, by Helen M. 
Jackson (1886). 

326 Logan's cabin. John Logan was an Indian chief, although 
he bore an English name. He was killed near Lake Erie in 1780. 
The " Speech," of which Irving gives an extract, was preserved by 
Thomas Jefferson in his Notes on Virginia. 

330 4 Their disregard of treaties. The disregard of treaties 
has not been always on the side of the Indian. Mr. Ellis says : 

" By making and breaking successive treaties, the United States first 
created and fostered in the minds of the Indians the preposterous notion 



484 THE SKETCH BOOK 

that they held a limitless fee of possession in these enormous reaches of 
territory ; and then after purchasing parts of them, and pledging the 
remainder to the Indians as still theirs, mocked at the Indians for thinking 
us in earnest, as if we really meant to countenance them in their foolish 
resistance to the progress of the age." 

334 29 Pomp and circumstance of war. Othello, Act III. Sc. 

3> 1- 354- 

336 17 Indian wars in New England. Increase Mather tells 
of the event described by Irving, in his Early History of New Eng- 
land. The work has been edited by Samuel G. Drake (1864). 

337 33 Curule chairs, chairs of state among the Romans. In 
form the curule chair resembled a folding campstool ; it had no 
back. 

338 17 The few hordes which still linger, etc. After careful 
investigation the conclusion has been reached that there are nearly 
as many Indians in North America now as when the New World 
was first visited by the white man. 

340 Philip of Pokanoket. While this sketch awakens the 
interest and sympathy of the reader, it is not one of Irving's best 
narratives. The fact that he was telling the story after others 
hampered him, and caused him to put in a good deal that does 
not bear directly on the action. He did not, before taking up his 
pen, make the subject thoroughly his own ; he did not realize the 
scenes vividly before describing them. 

King Philip's domain extended from Narragansett Bay to Massa- 
chusetts. He died August 12, 1676. 

For an account of the chief and his war with the white settlers the follow- 
ing books may be consulted: Soldiers in King Philip 's War; being a 
Critical Account of the War, etc., by George M. Bodge (1896) ; The Old 
Indian Chronicle, edited by Samuel G. Drake (1867) ; The History of King 
Philifs War, by the Rev. Increase Mather, "D.D. ; also a History of the 
Same War, by the Rev. Cotton Mather, D.D., edited by Samuel G. Drake 
(1862). 

342 (footnote) An heroic poem. The editor has not succeeded 
in finding the poem. 

348 (footnote) The Rev. Increase Mather's History. — See 
Increase Mather's History of New England, with Introduction and 
Notes by Samuel G. Drake (1864). 

350 27 Thrid, a form seldom used in prose writings. 



NOTES 485 

354 34 Peag (pronounced peeg), ox peak, consisted of small shell 
beads pierced and strung. The white variety were known as wam- 
pum (white), or wampumpeag. They were used by the Indians as 
money and also as ornaments. — See Century Dictionary . 

357 14 Starved. To starve signified originally to die. The 
German sterben, which is akin to it, has kept this broad meaning. 
In England the term is still applied to death from cold as well as 
from hunger, but in the United States it is applied only to death 
from hunger. The word weed, in the sense of clothing, has under- 
gone the same kind of change ; that is, it has become restricted in 
its application. 

361 John Bull. In this paper Irving draws a humorous sketch 
of the typical Englishman, and at the same time glances at the 
social and political condition of the English nation. The subject 
does not call forth his best powers as a humorist, and consequently 
the production is somewhat commonplace. 

362 12 Beyond the sound of Bow-bells. — See note relating to 
grave auntients, p. 284; also note on p. 141, 1. 5. 

363 31 Took lessons in his youth. An allusion, of course, to 
England's troubles with neighboring nations in past centuries. 

365 2 Gentlemen of the fancy, sporting characters. 

366 19 The family chapel, i.e. the established church. 

367 22 To have the old edifice thoroughly overhauled. The 
doctrines that led to the passage of the Reform Bill of 1832 were 
being warmly advocated at the time when this paper was written. 

367 34 The growth of centuries. The development of the 
English constitution forms an interesting subject of study, espe- 
cially for Americans. 

368 5 Any part of the building as superfluous. Some persons 
would like to do away with the laws which protect the English aristoc- 
racy — the laws relating to entail and primogeniture. The House of 
Lords has often been characterized as a hindrance to legislation. 

371 31 Family dissensions. — See mention of riots in note on 
p. 288, 1. 25. 

374 8 That he may remain quietly at home. The student 
who is familiar with the history of England since 1820 will find 
something humorous in Irving's remarks. 

375 To starve. — See note on p. 357, 1. 14. 

377 5 Earth to earth, etc. The expression occurs in the burial 
service in the Book of Common Prayer, used in the Episcopal Church. 



486 THE SKETCH BOOK 

377 11 Flower of the field. Job xiv. 2; Psalms ciii. 15; 
Isaiah xl. 6-8 ; I Peter i. 24. 

377 13 Rachel mourning, etc. Matthew ii. 18. 

378 3 This is the prettiest low-born lass, etc. Shakespeare : 
Twelfth Night, Act IV. Sc. 4, 1. 156. 

378 10 Rites of May. The first day of May was formerly 
widely celebrated in Great Britain, but the observance has almost 
ceased. The day is still observed in some parts of New England. 
The chief feature of the English celebration was the gathering of 
flowers and the crowning of the May Queen. — See The May Queen, 
by Tennyson. 

383 10 The silver cord. Ecclesiastes xii. 6. 

386 7 Izaak Walton. — See note on p. 247, 1. 4. 

386 15 Don Quixote, the hero of the famous Spanish romance 
bearing his name, written by Cervantes (1547-1616). The English 
adjective quixotic comes from the name of the Spanish Don. 

Don Quixote is one of the great books of the world — a book that for 
generations has pleased both the ignorant and the cultivated. There are 
several good English translations of the romance, one of the best being 
Ormsby's. Expurgated editions have been arranged for young readers. 

386 17 Cap-a-pie (or cap-a-pe), from head to foot, at all points. 

387 3 Hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra 

Morena. The account of Don Quixote's adventures among the 
goatherds begins in Don Quixote, Part I. Book III. Chap. ix. 

391 23 The Battle of Camperdown was a naval battle fought 
between the English and the Dutch, Oct. 11, 1797. The English 
were victorious. 

394 20 Admiral Hosier's Ghost, a ballad by Glover celebrating 
Vice-Admiral Hosier (1673-1727). 

394 20 All in the Downs. This expression occurs in a ballad 
by John Gay (1688-1732), entitled Sweet William 's Farewell to Black- 
eyed Susan. 

394 21 Tom Bowline (properly Tom Bowling) is a character 
in Smollett's Roderick Random. Dibdin wrote a song about him, 
beginning, " Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling." 

395 32 Sinbad (or Sindbad) the Sailor is a character in a story 
in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments which bears his name. 

393 25 St. Peter's master. The Apostle Peter, it will be 
remembered, was a fisherman. 



NOTES 487 

397 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is a delightful narrative, not- 
withstanding the fact that the action is slow and that the descriptions 
occupy many paragraphs. The slightly malicious humor of the piece 
is thoroughly enjoyable, the descriptions are lively and varied, and 
the characters strongly marked. Although it has certain elements 
in common with the Rip Van Winkle, it is unlike that sketch in its 
general tone. Rip's experiences occur in a region where nature has 
a mysterious charm, while Ichabod's adventures take place in a land 
of material plenty and physical comfort. The author's touch is 
kindly as he portrays the luckless Rip, but he draws the portrait of 
the Yankee schoolmaster with a relentless hand. A careful study 
of the narrative will reveal to the student of composition something 
of the author's method. It will be found that he mentions sounds 
as often as sights, and that he frequently stimulates the imagination 
by remote suggestions. In the picture of Sleepy Hollow with which 
the narrative begins there is little that appeals to the eye. It will 
also be found that he usually represents persons and things as in 
motion. Ichabod is seen "striding along the profile of a hill," 
sauntering with a bevy of country damsels, or wending his way to 
the farmhouse "by swamp and stream and awful woodland." In 
the description of Baltus Van Tassel's farm, even inanimate objects 
are endowed with life and motion. The spring "bubbled up" at 
the foot of the elm, and then " stole sparkling away " through the 
grass. Every window and crevice of the vast barn seemed " bursting 
forth with the treasures of the farm." Inside, the flail " was busily 
resounding " from morning to night. Swallows were twittering, 
pigeons cooing, porkers grunting, turkeys gobbling, while many 
other creatures with their sounds and motions added to the anima- 
tion of the scene. 

397 Diedrich Knickerbocker, the fictitious author of Irving's 
History of New York. — See Introduction in the present volume. 

397 Castle of Indolence, a poem by James Thomson (1700- 
1748), a Scotchman. The Seasons is his best known poem. 

397 5 St. Nicholas, a noted bishop who lived in Asia Minor 
about a.d. 300, the patron saint of boys and sailors. Santa Clans 
is a corruption of his name. 

398 7 If ever I should wish for a retreat, etc. " Sunnyside," 
Irving's home in his later years, was in Tarrytown. In a letter to 
his brother Peter, written in 1835, he said : 



488 THE SKETCH BOOK 

■■ You have been told, no doubt, of a purchase I have made of ten acres, 
lying at the foot of Oscar's farm, on the river bank. It is a beautiful spot, 
capable of being made a little paradise. There is a small stone cottage on 
it, built about a century since, and inhabited by one of the Van Tassels. . . . 
My idea is to make a little nookery somewhat in the Dutch style, quaint but 
unpretending. ... In fact, it is more with a view of furnishing the worthy 
little Bramin a retreat for himself and his girls [his nieces], where they can 
go to ruralize during the pleasant season of the year." In later years, when 
in Madrid, he wrote of his " darling little Sunnyside," and added : " Nay, I 
believe it is the having such an object to work for which spurs me on to 
combat and conquer difficulty." 

398 13 The original Dutch settlers. The impression that the 
Dutch settlers of New York were inactive has come mainly from 
Irving's portrayal of their character in his humorous History of New 
York, and in his Dutch sketches. 

398 22 Master Hendrick Hudson. — See note on p. 58, 1. 33. 

398 33 The nightmare with her nine-fold. Shakespeare : 
King Lear, Act III. Sc. 4, 1. 126. A r inefold, as used here, may be 
a corruption of nine foals, or it may mean nine imps, ox familiars. 
The nightmare was formerly believed to be a witch who oppressed 
people during sleep. 

399 20 In a hurry to get back to the churchyard. It was sup- 
posed that ghosts were obliged to hurry back to their habitations at 
cockcrow. — See Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 1, lines 157-164. Irving quotes 
the lines in Hamlet on p. 218. 

400 24 Country schoolmasters. — See remarks on the "New- 
England Schoolmaster " in A History of the People of the United 
States, by John Bach MacMaster, Vol. I. p. 21. 

401 14 Eel pot, a trap for catching eels. This trap has a funnel- 
shaped entrance which makes it easy for the eels to get in, but 
difficult for them to get out. 

401 25 Spare the rod, etc. Butler: Hudibras, II. I 843. There 
are earlier forms that differ slightly from the expression quoted. 
All originate in the Bible verse : " He that spareth his rod hateth 
his son." — Proverbs xiii. 24. 

403 5 The lion bold, etc. The following couplet accompanied 
the letter L in the New England Primer : 

"The lion bold 
The lamb doth hold." 



NOTES 489 

A rude cut illustrated the interesting situation. The couplet may 
have been suggested by the following passage : 

" Sporting the lion ramp'd, and in his paw 
Dandled the kid." 

Paradise Lost, Book IV. 1. 343. 

403 5 Whilom, formerly, once. 

404 18 Cotton Mather's History of New England Witchcraft. 
Cotton Mather (1663-17 28) wrote of witchcraft in New England in 
his Wonders of the Invisible World and his Memorable Providences 
Relating to Witchcraft. Prof. Barrett Wendell has written a sympa- 
thetic and interesting biography of this noted divine, entitled Cotton 
Mather, the Puritan Priest (1891). 

405 17 In linked sweetness, etc. " Of linked sweetness," etc. 
— Milton : V Allegro, 1. 140. 

409 7 Craving that quarter, i.e. craving that consideration, 
that mercy. Quarter signified formerly friends///'/, concord. 

409 25 Setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, etc. These 
states were not admitted to the Union until near the close of the 
eighteenth century. During Irving's boyhood they w r ere the scene 
of the wildest kind of border life. 

411 18 Herculean, an adjective derived from the name Hercules. 
Hercules (the same as the Greek Heracles), the son of Zeus (Jupiter) 
and Alcmene, was renowned for his strength and his courage. He 
accomplished certain superhuman feats known as the " twelve 
labors." 

412 7 Don Cossacks, i.e. Cossacks living near the river Don. 
The Cossacks are tribes living in Russia, members of which form 
an important element in the cavalry of the Russian army. 

412 15 Rantipole, wild, rakish; a term not in good use. 

412 33 Supple-jack, a climbing shrub having a tough but 
pliable stem. 

413 5 That stormy lover, Achilles. Homer's Iliad tells the 
story of the wrath of Achilles. The hero's anger was aroused 
because Agamemnon, his chief in war, took from him a prize that 
had been allotted to him, — a beautiful young girl whom he dearly 
loved. 

415 27 Mercury, the Roman god of commerce and gain, is 
usually identified with Hermes, the messenger god of the Greeks. 
He is often represented as carrying a winged staff, and sometimes 
has wings at his heels, and wears a close-fitting winged cap. 



490 THE SKETCH BOOK 

415 31 Quilting frolic. The quilting of colonial times is described 
in Home Life in Colonial Days, by Alice Morse Earle (1898), p. 270. 

420 18 Oly koek (pronounced oli-kbk ; -the word means oil cake), 
a. cake similar to a doughnut or a cruller, but richer than either and 
more delicate. 

420 28 Heaven bless the mark ! Authorities differ as to the 
origin of this exclamatory expression. — See Century Dictionary and 
Schmidt's Shakespeare-Lexicon. 

421 32 St. Vitus suffered martyrdom under Diocletian. During 
the seventeenth century, in certain districts in Germany, it was 
believed that good health could be secured for a year by dancing 
before his image at his festival, which occurred on the 15th of June. 
The name " St. Vitus's Dance " was given to a nervous disorder 
for which his help was invoked. 

422 31 Mynheer (pronounced min-hdr ; the same as the Ger- 
man mein Herr), Dutchman, in colloquial language. The term 
means properly Mr. or sir. 

422 32 The Battle of White Plains, a battle of the Revolution 
which took place Oct. 28, 1776. 

423 32 Major Andr6 (John) was an officer in the British army 
in the Revolutionary War. He arranged with the traitor Benedict 
Arnold for the surrender of West Point, but was arrested at Tarry- 
town and shortly afterwards executed as a spy. As he was a good 
and brave man, his sad fate aroused the sympathy of friends and 
foes alike. 

425 9 Should have won it, would inevitably have won it. 
Should formerly had this meaning. 

426 18 Witching time of night. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 2, 1. 406. 
Witching, as used here, signifies suited to enchantment or witchcraft. 

430 2 Stave, a metrical portion, a stanza. 

431 17 If I can but reach that bridge. - It was formerly believed 
that witches — and perhaps other supernatural beings — could not 
cross running water. In Burns's poem Tarn O'Shanter the witch 
could not follow Tam across the bridge. 

432 23 Pitch pipe, a small wind instrument used in regulating 
the pitch of a tune. 

433 30 Ten Pound Court, a court where cases involving not 
more than ten pounds could be tried. A court of this kind was 
presided over by a justice of the peace or some other local 
magistrate. 



NOTES 491 

435 3 City of Manhattoes, i.e. the City of New York ; a term 
used by Irving in his humorous History of New York. 

436 3 Ergo, therefore ; often used in a jocular way, especially 
by Shakespeare. — See argal for ergo, Hamlet, Act V. Sc. i, first 
sixty lines. 

436 7 Puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, Le. puz- 
zled by the process of reasoning in the argument. A syllogism is an 
argument consisting of three propositions, of which the first two are 
called the premises, and the last the conclusion. The following is a 
syllogism : 

" Every virtue is laudable ; 
Kindness is a virtue ; 
Therefore kindness is laudable." 

(See Webster's Dictionary.') 

Of course the so-called syllogism of the " story-teller " is nonsensical. 

437 L'Envoy, usually V Envoi (from the Fr. envoyer, to send), 
an explanatory or commendatory postscript to a poem, essay, or 
book. The English form is envoy. 

437 Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. (Irving has omitted 
two lines of the original stanza.) This poem has been wrongly 
attributed to Chaucer. It is a translation, probably by Sir Richard 
Ros, of a French poem by Alan Chartier, born in 1386. — See Com- 
plete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, edited by Walter W. Skeat, Vol. 
VII. : Chaucerian and Other Pieces, pp. li, 299. 

438 23 A devil, cooked chicken or some other kind of meat, 
highly flavored with Cayenne pepper. 



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now ready. $1.25 each. # 

Selections from Malory's Morte Darthur. Edited by Professor Wil- 
liam E. Mead of Wesleyan University, Middletown, Conn. $1.00. 

Burke's Speech on Conciliation with America. Edited by Professor 

Hammond Lamont of Brown University. 50 cents. 

Selections from Shelley's Poems. Edited by W. J. Alexander of 

the University of Toronto. $1.15. 

Selections from Landor. Edited by W. B. S. Clymer, formerly of 

Harvard University. $1.00. 

Selections from William Cowper's Poems. Edited by James O. 

Murray of Princeton University. $1.00. 

Selections from Robert Burns's Poems. Edited by the late John G. 

Dow, formerly of the University of Wisconsin. $1.10. 

The Poems of William Collins. Edited by Walter C. Bronson of 

Brown University. 90 cents. 

Gibbon's Memoirs. Edited by Professor Oliver F Emerson of 

Western Reserve University. $1.10. 



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THE HARVARD EDITION OF 

SHAKESPEARE'S COMPLETE WORKS 

By HENRY N. HUDSON, LL.D., 

Author of the "Life, Art, and Characters of Shakespeare," 
Editor of "School Shakespeare" etc. 

In twenty volumes, duodecimo', two plays in each volume ; also in ten volumes, 
of four plays each. 

RETAIL PRICES: 

,o-vo.. edition {**„•,; : **£| ,0-vor. edition {£>«- | ; •" 



The Harvard Edition has been undertaken and the plan of it 
shaped with a special view to making the Poet's pages pleasant and 
attractive to general readers. A history of each play is given in its 
appropriate volume. The plays are arranged in three distinct series : 
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies ; and the plays of each series pre- 
sented, as nearly as may be, in the chronological order of the writing. 

A special merit of this edition is, that each volume has two sets of 
notes, — one mainly devoted to explaining the text, and placed at the 
foot of the page, the other mostly occupied with matters of textual 
comment and criticism, and printed at the end of each play. The 
edition is thus admirably suited to the uses both of the general reader 
and of the special student. 

Horace Howard Furness: A noble edition, with happy mingle of illustration, 
explanation, and keen, subtle, sympathetic criticism. 

Professor Dowden : Hudson's edition takes its place beside the best work of 
English Shakespeare students. 

Professor C. T. Winchester: It seems to me, without question, the best edition 
now printed. 

Life, Art, and Characters of Shakespeare 

By HENRY N. HUDSON. 

In two volumes. 
i2mo. 1003 pages. Retail prices: cloth, $4.00 ; half calf, $8.00. 

Edwin Booth, the great actor and eminent Shakespearean scholar, 
once said that he received more real good from the original criticisms 
and suggestive comments as given by Dr. Hudson in these two books 
than from any other writer on Shakespeare. 



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BOOKS ON ENGLISH LITERATURE 



Athenaeum Press Series : 22 volumes now ready. 

Baldwin's Inflection and Syntax of Malory's Morte d'Arthur $1.40 

Browne's Shakspere's Versification 25 

Corson's Primer of English Verse 1.00 

Emery's Notes on English Literature 1.00 

Frink's New Century Speaker 1.00 

Garnett's Selections in English Prose from Elizabeth to Victoria.. 1.50 

Gayley's Classic Myths in English Literature 1.50 

Gayley and Scott's Literary Criticism 1.25 

Gummere's Handbook of Poetics 1.00 

Hudson's Life, Art, and Characters of Shakespeare. 2 vols 4.00 

Hudson's Classical English Reader 1.00 

Hudson's Text-Book of Prose 1.25 

Hudson's Text-Book of Poetry 1.25 

Hudson's Essays on English, Studies in Shakespeare, etc 25 

Kent's Shakespeare Note-Book 60 

Litchfield's Spenser's Britomart 60 

Minto's Manual of English Prose Literature 1.50 

Minto's Characteristics of the English Poets 1.50 

Phelps' Beginnings of the English Romantic Movement 1.00 

Smith's Synopsis of English and American Literature 80 

Standard English Classics : 18 volumes now ready. 

Thayer's Best Elizabethan Plays 1.25 

White's Philosophy of American Literature 30 

White's Philosophy of English Literature 1.00 

Winchester's Five Short Courses of Reading in English Literature .40 



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GAYLEY'S CLASSIC MYTHS 

THE CLASSIC MYTHS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Based chiefly on Bulfinch's " Age of Fable " (1855). Accompanied by an 
Interpretative and Illustrative Commentary. 

EDITED BY 

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY, 

Professor of the English Language and Literature in the 
University of California. 



i2mo. Half leather. 540 pages. Fully illustrated, together with 16 full- 
page illustrations. For introduction, $1.50. 



Attention is called to these special features of this book : 

An introduction on the indebtedness of English poetry 
to the literature of fable; and on methods of teaching 
mythology. 

An elementary account of myth-making and of the prin- 
cipal poets of mythology, and of the beginnings of the world, 
of gods and of men among the Greeks. 

A thorough revision and systematization of Bulfinch's 
Stories of Gods and Heroes : with additional stories, and 
with selections from English poems based upon the myths. 

Illustrative cuts from Baumeister, Roscher, and other 
standard authorities on mythology. 

Certain necessary modifications in Bulfinch's treatment of 
the mythology of nations other than the Greek and Roman. 

Notes, following the text (as in the school editions of 
Latin and Greek authors), containing an historical and 
interpretative commentary upon certain myths, supplemen- 
tary poetical citations, a list of the better known allusions 
to mythological fiction, references to works of art, and hints 
to teachers and students. 



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THE NEW CENTURY SPEAKER 



SELECTED AND ADAPTED BY 



HENRY ALLYN FRINK, 

Late Professor of Logic, Rhetoric, and Public Speaking in Amherst College. 



i2mo. Cloth. 346 pages. For introduction, $1.00. 



This is a fresh and notably interesting collection of 
prose selections suitable for use as declamations. The 
trite and hackneyed pieces that have worn themselves 
threadbare in public service are omitted. We have 
instead extracts from the greatest speeches of such men 
as Henry W. Grady, Henry Cabot Lodge, Chauncey 
M. Depew, Charles H. Parkhurst, James G. Blaine, 
James A. Garfield, George William Curtis, Henry Ward 
Beecher, Joseph Parker, and others who represent the 
best in modern oratory. The selections have been 
tested in the author's rhetorical exercises, and each 
possesses directness, force, and effectiveness. 

Part I. consists of " drill pieces " for the development 
of power to gain and hold the attention of an audience 
and later to persuade or convince it. The acquisition of 
this ability, which so determines the success or failure 
of a public speaker, is the main thought of the book. 

In Part II. the leading orators are represented by a 
group of selections which so fully illustrate each orator's 
scope, method, and characteristics that the book will 
prove useful in the study of American oratory during the 
latter part of this century. The selections are brief, few 
of them requiring more than five minutes for delivery. 



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Atlanta. Dallas. Columbus. London. 



May -13. lfcOl 



1061 I AVW 






